


Blue Boy

by ourdeceit



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, NBC Hannibal
Genre: Bottom Will Graham, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sex, Gore, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, Kinky sex, M/M, Mafia AU, Manipulative Hannibal, Manipulative Will, Murder, Soft Hannibal, Tags Are Hard, Top Hannibal Lecter, Twink Will Graham, Will Graham - Freeform, Will Loves Hannibal, Young Will Graham, absolutely no rape whatsoever, but hannibal says fuck it, but not overwhelming, hannibal doesn't mind that, hannibal has many kinks, hannibal is a drug lord, hannibal is an old fuck, hannibal is lowkey an ass for forcing will to stay with him, lowkey daddy kink, mafia family doesn't approve, one is a man but it still implies, playing with feelings, these tags won't work but whatever, they both manipulate to get what they want, two boys hopelessly in love, will graham is a total cock slut, will is a tease, will is an innocent high-school student who manages to get caught up in the wrong crowd, will suddenly has many kinks too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourdeceit/pseuds/ourdeceit
Summary: Alternate Universe of NBC's Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.Rewrite of a previous story, Little Boy Blue.Hannibal Lecter is apart of the Lecter family, a Mafia organization that leads the drug smuggling business. Matthew Brown is Hannibal's close business partner, friend, and second in command. Aside from the Lecter family's dealing in illegal drug transportation, Brown owns an exclusive club that Hannibal would prefer to have no part in. So, it's a pleasant surprise when Hannibal finds a lovely teenage boy inside Brown's club. Will, who truly had no intention of stumbling into a nightclub, is rather infatuated with the foreign man who kindly guides him out of trouble and gives him a ride home. A month later and they run into each other again, but in less favorable circumstances. The Graham family is reprimanded for lack of funds and stupidity. Brown says to toss the boy out with a bullet in his temple like his parents and Hannibal says to give him a better end.That end is staying with Hannibal as part of the payment for his parent’s foolish mistake.What choice does Will have but to take Hannibal's generosity?





	1. Introduction

* * *

This is a rewrite of a previous, uncompleted work.

Updates will be semi-frequent. I will plan to take a

decent amount of time to write each chapter to the

best of my ability and as closely related to the idea

I have outlined. Hopefully, you all enjoy! Kudos and

comments are warmly welcomed and appreciated!

* * *

 


	2. A Smile Can Get You Out of Anything (Maybe)

   There was a cross hanging on the wall. The cross is the principal symbol of the Christian religion, recalling the crucifixion of Christ Jesus and the redeeming benefits of His passion and death. The cross is thus a sign both of Christ and of the faith of Christians.

   Henceforth making a club an odd place to find a crucifixion cross hanging on a wall, slightly askew from its usual position due to the frequent slamming of a heavy door and bodies pressing against the wall, hands grasping whatever was there in the search for hair, often knocked away entirely to be clumsily hung up again. It was furthermore unusual to know it belonged to a sex-addict Catholic who ran not only the exclusive club it was located in but also a drug cartel that was the reasoning for eighteen murders and the kidnapping of three high government officials - all of which was orchestrated by the cross’ owner. Matthew Brown had odd tastes, but all were relatively understandable.

   The cross, however, was... _perplexing_.

   “Did a word get through to your fucking head?” Matthew snapped his calloused fingers once, then twice. His elbows pressed into the glass desk, an eyebrow expectantly raised. “No?”

   “Why do you keep a cross hanging in the office of your club?” It was an innocent question, but one that chafed wrongly on Brown’s patience. “Do you not believe that your God could see past these doors to what awaits downstairs?”

   “Jesus was hung on the cross,” Matthew impatiently retorted, “not God.” Turning the question around. A defense mechanism.

   “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are one conjoined force in the Christian religion.”

   “I’m Catholic.”

   “Is there a difference?”

   Matthew waved away his agitation and settled back into the chair he began occupying only two minutes before when he called this brief meeting in session to discuss business-related matters and not the complexities of religion. He explained the matter of money-lending and stalkers to his friend, but his companion was staring at the cross hanging on the wall without an opinion muttered or giving any sign of having paid attention at all. Brown hadn’t given it any concern. He often stared at inanimate objects as his mind inevitably trailed off from whatever subject was at hand, and over the course of two decades being so-called comrades-in-arms, Matthew had learned to ignore the irritated prickling and simply plow on with the discussion. That he did, but his remorse was slipping through.

   “Our dancers are being stalked. Does that not bother you?”

   Hannibal Lecter shrugged. It was too casual of an action coming from him, a man who held his standards higher than standards could even reach. It spiked Brown’s interest. He had read the man before him for twenty years and had never once seen Hannibal appear so uninterested. “They’re your dancers,” Hannibal replied. “I fund this humble establishment and clean up after it while you sit here with your cheap bourbon while one of the dancers you so dearly care about is sitting plumply in your lap.” His gaze turned away from the cross in sudden repulsion. “Do not mistake that for jealousy.” It was an idle warning, one vacant of any true threat. “Do you think I won’t promptly take care of the issue?”

   “Will you?”

   Hannibal breathed something akin to a sigh. It was tired and exasperated, though not from sleep deprivation. “Yes, I will.”

   They had known each other far before they established a business. It was evident that Hannibal had a well-trained hand in the behind-the-scenes rather than face-front confrontations. He didn’t enjoy the actual business aspect; finances were not his specialty. He enjoyed the thrill of the violence that laid beneath slithering like a threatening serpent, always ready to swallow its designated prey. Matthew was all words and no play - Hannibal being quite the opposite. The only way Brown could ever see the threat was in the glint of his partner’s caramel hues; the way his eyes narrowed, traced every micro-expression and small movement like he was deliberating on when it would be most successful to pounce. Hannibal was always ready and always willing. That was what made Matthew and Lecter a fitting business companionship, and what kept their success thriving for so long.

   “How was home?” Matthew asked, a wooden toothpick twirling between thumb and forefinger. A knowing smile played on his lips, danced around the very corner of his mouth into a deviously sinister smirk. “I expected you in another week.”

   Lecter’s hands splayed before him in yet another open shrug. “Lithuania was fine. The heat was a bother, as were the persistent heavy showers. I did consider staying longer but as business was taken care of, I saw no reason to further terrorize.”

   Brown’s cigarette-ruined throat emitted a chuckle. _Terrorize_ was a fitting word to describe Hannibal Lecter’s visits, however frequent they may be. “Your sister didn’t come calling?”

   “No.”

   “Pity…” Brown mused. “I enjoyed seeing her pretty, round face.”

   “Mischa is quite fine not seeing yours, nor mine. ” Hannibal stood, the chair sliding out from under him. His grip was ginger as he set the piece of furniture as it was when he first entered, for he knew how particular Matthew could be when it came up to arrangements - here, anyway. His lavish home was an entirely different story. "I'm afraid I must be on my way. Jet lag will be catching up with me soon enough."

   Brown's smile faltered. His hands went searching for a piece of paper amongst the many upon his desk, fumbling over folders and loose parchment. Finally, with a triumphant exclamation, Matthew gave the file to Hannibal. _Shoved_ the file into Hannibal's chest. The latter gave a single disapproving look and turned to the door, thumb skidding over the thirteen pages that were contained and organized beneath the compressed folder. He did not skim over it yet, having decided that anything work-related could wait until he had gotten at least eight hours of sleep. It was not that Hannibal had any particular struggles with resting on the personal jet Matthew had gifted to him last year as a birthday gift, but it was his restlessness that kept him, inevitably, pacing back to the cooler that held his favorite celebratory drink - _Armand de Brignac Brut,_ rose Champagne. Nearly ten thousand in American currency, but well worth it after a grueling week of staying in Lithuania. "You should let her into the family..." Matthew persisted, "she might like it."

  The Mafia has controlled everything from the street corner drug trade to the highest levels of organized government. Glorified by movies and television, hounded by law enforcement officials, marked for death by their enemies, mobsters live violent and often brief lives. The Mafia at its core is about one thing - money. Still, there are secret rituals, complicated rules and tangled webs of family loyalty and disloyalty. In organized crime, there is a hierarchy, with higher-ranking members making decisions that trickle down to the other members of the family that are below in ranking. The Mafia is not a single group or gang; it is made up of many families that have, at times, fought each other in bitter and bloody gang wars. At other times, they have cooperated in the interest of greater profits, sometimes even serving on a commission that makes major decisions affecting all the families. Most of the time, though, they simply agree to stay out of each other's way because that's what proves to be a greater interest - staying alive. The Mafia is neither a political or religious affiliation. Because of their roots, many Mafioso are Catholic. Part of the oath a mobster takes when he becomes a made man, a member of a Mafia family, is that the Mafia comes before birth family and above God.

   Hannibal Lecter never found putting his Mafia family above God to be much of a problem, having been raised an atheist and remaining true to that inherited belief. His reasoning that the world was simply just there - neither created by a higher hand or some singularity that heated and became what he was walking upon today. Matthew was a strict Catholic himself in the matter of beliefs and not so thoroughly with his deeds, but it had always been a clashing point between the two men. Hannibal saw Matthew's religion to be whimsical reasoning, and Darko argued that Hannibal was simply "a stupid old fuck." Over the years, they merely just learned to keep religion out of their interactions.

   The Mafia itself was an easy concept to understand but far more difficult to maintain. Hannibal, now edging on fifty-two, had been in the business for twenty years. It was a slow start. After the first two years of minor sells and only one murder, Hannibal officially partnered with Matthew, then a young adult that hadn't even breached the age of twenty. They clashed then more than they did now but it was clear that they would make successful business partners, and so they built what was now recognized as the Lecter Family - a long hierarchy that stemmed from Hannibal Lecter, the capo. Being the head of an extended none-blood related family was tiring in itself, but they managed to create a system that was religiously followed and, in turn, created a decent amount of peace between peoples. One could not top the drug-dealing business if there were constant family wars.

   Hannibal wouldn't consider it perfect, but it was  _decent_.

   It just wasn't for Mischa. She needed to stay home, his home, _their_ home.

   Lithuania was a small country along the coast of the Baltic Sea. Small, but the most populated of the three Baltic states. It was near Russia, where Hannibal had first met Matthew while traveling on business. He was twenty-seven, relatively fresh to the psychology scene as he pursued a career in therapy. He became well-known and sought after in Lithuania and Sweden and the smaller bordering countries. When his service was required in Russia it was a rather large step in the furtherance of his career. His new patient was none other than Brown seeking help with his sex addiction. For weeks he treated Hannibal as a self-care unit and even gave the man a decent apartment, stemming from a wealthy family and able to do so, to use during his stays in Russia, which were often extended and never inexpensive. Hannibal considered it a gift. He treated Matthew for months and learned more than he perhaps should have during that time, and Matthew learned much about his therapist in return. How they became business partners in drug-trade and brothels (for a brief time) was never quite clear; Matthew liked to argue that it was destined they terrorize Europe together and Hannibal chose to be the more modest and rational of the two, often arguing that it was a match made by chance. Hannibal simply believed there was always a portion of him that was curious about the underground-network Brown was apart of, and, fatefully, decided to divulge himself in it. Therapy was not excluded from their friendship, but it was certainly not what it revolved around. Hannibal was there when Matthew was feeling particularly troubled, but he otherwise desired to keep out of his partner's personal life. Lecter enjoyed to keep to himself and that was respected.

   Therefore, Brown did not ask Hannibal to stay for a drink, although the offer burned at the back of his throat.

* * *

    The club branched into many sectors. The upstairs portion consisted of Matthew Brown's favored office and storage, each room organized according to what it housed - from the more expensive brands of alcohol, chairs, tables, to extra equipment for the performances on stage. The middle sector was the dance floor, otherwise regarded as the center of the nightclub, which housed a vast majority of the club's visitors. The dance floor itself lit into a show of colors with LED floorboards that were, in their own right, a pain to sweep and wash. However, Matthew insisted on installing them "for the effect, Hannibal."

   Whatever that meant.

   All Hannibal could feel was the thumping of feet and the heat of a hundred bodies molding together like wet clay, sweat plastering their skin and acting like grease as they effortlessly swam together in what, in the modern age, people considered dancing. To Hannibal, it only looked like grinding. Lust-filled, filthy, desperate grinding. He felt physically repulsed to be shuffling through the crowd that managed to migrate into the halls. Men on women, women on women, men on men - it didn't matter who the mouth or hands belonged to so long as they could press each other against a wall and fuck each other's tongues. It was, in every way, animalistic.

   "Take it elsewhere." The comment seemed to draw only the receiving girl's attention, who had another girl's hand sliding beneath the hem of her cocktail dress. The very same comment was given a second time to a different couple, but this time the girl was unzipping her one-night-stand's pants. Neither seemed to have heard Hannibal, that or they simply gave no regard to his authority; but, due to his risky position, they were not supposed to know of his authority. To them, he would have appeared as just any other man in a suit, and that was what Darko and Hannibal preferred. It was risky to be prowling through the halls as it was, for too many eyes were available to peer at him. Recognition was dangerous, recollection even more so. Yet, seeing as how there was no other way to the lower level, Hannibal was left to be cautious as he sauntered through the halls that smelled of youth and sex. Not a favorite scent... Rather suffocating, in fact. Hannibal shook his head as if he could get rid of it, palm colliding with a security guarded door as he simply, only wanted to be where he wasn't surrounded with strangers so infatuated with the looks of the other that they would do _it_ here until security threw them out, in public, in Darko's club as if being sanitary didn't matter. He might have done the same in his youth, but he had certainly and drastically grown and matured since then.

   His hand skimmed along something soft in the single instance where he wasn't quite watching where his steps were leading him. He turned to give a rapid threat to an invading couple and even more so to bark at the lack of security when he, surprised and appalled, found a single teenage boy retreating to the corner.

   "Darius!"

   The spoken name belonged to a bulky foreign-looking man, whose features were all sharp and irritated. He had a scar leaving the end of his right eyebrow hairless, a stark contrast to his hair that was otherwise dark and full. His lips were drawn back into a sinister smile, amusement playing at his grip as he outstretched his hand to the boy in a careless pointing gesture.

   The boy couldn't have looked any more bewildered. He was short with curly brown locks and a thin build that gave him the first impression of a girl when Hannibal only gave him a quick glance. _Obviously underage_. His eyes, wide and alarmed, were a stark blue that matched the lighting pouring in through the open door that strobed through the halls from the main room. He, unlike Darius, didn't have a single impurity. His hands were tugging at the end of his t-shirt in what Hannibal assumed was a nervous gesture - because Hannibal sure wasn't making him feel comfortable. His stare could have struck through the boy's bones. "What is this?" Hannibal asked, voice bordering from calm to anger. "Where was your attention, if not on your job?"

   Darius looked taken aback for all of a moment but was quick to compose himself back to the superior posture of his broad chest puffed out and his chin held high. "He didn't sneak in. We found him lurkin' up the stairs to Wolf, so we took him in here until Wolf was ready to deal with him."

   Hannibal nodded in a considering manner. He gave the intruder a once-over, examining him from his worn-down high tops to his overlarge t-shirt that was a pale gray. "You didn't mean to come here, did you?"

   The boy shook his head.

   "He didn't randomly end up here," Darius interjected, then reconsidered and muttered an overdue "sir."

   "Club-goers do not venture into an environment like this wearing the outfit they probably wore to school that morning," Hannibal replied. "What I do want to know is how he managed to get in here. Care to explain?"

   "Some girl snuck me in when I asked her for directions." Though an explanation was not asked of the boy directly, he gave it regardless. A moment of confusion, perhaps, or the desire to clear his name. "She said there was a phone in here but it didn't - I figured out what I got myself into and tried to find an exit. I would have gone through the entrance but the guy that was guarding it looked... unfriendly." He breathed through parted lips, eyes drawing down to his dirt-scuffed shoes. Hannibal smiled. "I went to the first door I saw."

   Darius chuckled. "Do you believe that? Some girl wanted to get into his pants so she took him to an adult club? _Kvailas berniukas_." ( ~~Stupid boy~~ )

   Hannibal outstretched his hand in a beckoning. Whether it was the welcoming look he displayed or the fact that he looked more pleasant than Darius, the boy approached. "Fetch our guests a glass of water, he looks parched." He expected his command to be obeyed, and that it was by a disgruntled Darius. Hannibal turned down the hall with the heel of his leather Armani shoes clicking against the marble tile floors. The walls were painted black, as was the flooring of the staircase that Hannibal strode down. The boy was at his heels, presumably taking the title 'guest' to mean he was still wanted. "How long have you been here?"

   "Ten minutes, I think."

   Hannibal nodded. When he reached the last step he waited for Will who, rather casually, jump down the last three. His sneakers hit the floor with a snap. "Hold on to my jacket, darling. I would hate to have you mistaken as a threat, though I doubt those eyes of yours could do anything but give a charming bat."

   Lecter's request was returned with a skeptical narrowing of eyes as the boy pondered on the safety of following those orders. He looked at the lapel of Hannibal's blazer first and then to the pocket, deciding that it would be best to just hold the hem of it. It felt soft beneath his dainty fingers, like a feather that was worth over two thousand dollars and surely shouldn't have any hands on it at all, only to meet a fate of being showcased on a hanger in a massive walk-in-closet inside a lavishing home. He felt like he was dirtying it by just being near. But, truly, what choice did he have? It was to be led out of where he didn't intend to go in the first place or have his rear-end hit the pavement as he was thrown out. Taking the safer route seemed more logical. So, he allowed himself to be led through a room that seemed even larger than the upstairs portion, although that could just be the lack of people inhabiting it.

   The last portion of the nightclub was a private floor for the highest paying, the famous, or those who were willing to pay to be away from the mass of throbbing bodies. There was a small group here of only a dozen lounging in a dimly-lit, steaming pool - four men holding cocktails and eight women all clad in nothing or glittering bikinis, or were those underclothes? The boy turned his gaze away before his eyes could entirely meet a woman's plump breasts, although the temptation to innocently peer was certainly there. He could hear the man leading him through the room give him an airly sweet laugh. "What's your name, darling?" He asked. "Will," the boy muttered. Hannibal's hand clasped around Will's shoulder in an oddly casual manner. "Not fond of women, are you, Will?"

   He was glad Hannibal couldn't see his cheeks burn hot and red. 

   They reached another door, and then another. It took ten strides to reach the second, the conjoined room being nothing but a screening room. Hannibal walked past the large devices that resembled the ones at airports without a second glance and didn't have Will go through the process, which the boy seemed grateful for as he breathed a relieved sigh. Hannibal peered down at him in questioning. "Claustrophobic..." Will muttered in an answer and earned himself a smile that was only a slight pull of lips. Regardless, it was better than a growling sneer. Then, the second door was open and they were standing in a decently-sized parking garage with the night air welcoming them in a blistering cold sweep.

   "I'm afraid this is where I leave you, Will." Hannibal's hand dropped from the boy's shoulder. "I do ask that you never return here for your own safety. If I hadn't found you your departure wouldn't have been painless; though you might not have experienced it, Darius has quite the temper. I believe it would best if you didn't return to this part of town entirely. We are not the only establishment here and it wouldn't be safe for you to be caught. The last thing I wish to happen is for some mistakenly sweet girl to pull you into a brothel." He must have meant it as a joke, for he smiled. "I could be severely penalized for allowing a minor inside these walls, even if I did not allow it at all."

   Will nodded in agreed understanding. He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the heel of the other, a hand raising to sweep through his mess of chocolate curls. "It won't happen again. I know everybody else in there isn't as nice as you." Divinely sweet, Hannibal thought, but nothing he could have. "Thank you, sir... for not throwing me out."

   Hannibal's frame turned as a black Cadillac pulled up to the back entryway. It was sleek, well cared for, with not a spot of rust faltering the noir paint. "I've arranged for you to have a ride home, as I assumed you walked. Just tell the man driving where to take you, but please ask him to stop a block from the location." His hand reached out into the bitter cold and Will took it. The boy's palm was warm and clammy, perpetually thin and bony knuckles beneath Hannibal's firm grasp. Both were eager to tuck their hands back into their pockets. "Have a good night, Will. For your sake, I hope we never meet again."

  Will smiled. It was a sight that was as ethereal as it was natural - the way his lips pulled upwards and his brow raised with the gesture. Hannibal returned it in the slightest. It was a pity they wouldn't be meeting again, for Hannibal felt he might be able to grow to enjoy the child's contagious smile and sweet disposition - something that contrasted so greatly from the lust-filled bodies inside or Darko's unbearable sense of humor. That, perhaps, was for another century.

  "Likewise."


	3. A Smile Can't Get You Out of Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, Will's appearance is similar to Hugh in the film The Sleeping Dictionary (I imagine his hair a little more curly and a bit longer, though not by much). Hannibal is his clean-cut self. I'll insert images to help you out with the imagining.

* * *

* * *

 

He didn't complete the job.

    _Darling_. That's what he called him. Leon said to expect _little pup_ because that's what "the Wolf" called the ones who caught his eye. Will knew he hadn't completed the job the second 'darling' was used as a title, although his mind turned around when the man began leading him to the lower levels of the nightclub. Will knew he was simply fucked as he rode home in a stranger's silent car, not a dollar in his pocket and not a kiss on his cheek. Leon was, in the least, angry. He did well in managing it, that Will had to credit him for, but he could see it bubbling in his skin like a boil readying to burst. Will was prepared to take the blow, especially because Bella was left at the club without a clue as to what happened to him, and the job left undone on his part. Bella did her task; she got him in and kept the attention off of him, and that was all she was needed for. Will got in without a problem, without a scratch, without his ass being kicked and thrown out. Leon shuffled out the door the moment he saw Will enter without his mother in tow. He needn't ask to know the scheme had failed.

   Will was alone for two hours, which extended well into the morning. He paced, bite his nails, ruffled his hair to the point where it looked like he had just risen from bed. It shouldn't have taken so long to retrieve Bella, certainly not if that was where Leon went the moment he left the house. Two hours later his mother and father returned just as he did - unhurt, tired, worried, and angry. Neither spoke a word to him as they trudged to the back of the house. Will wasn't even sure if his mother stripped out of her cocktail dress before she headed to bed in low hopes if hopeful at all. Leon muttered a disgruntled "catch you in the morning" and Will wasn't convinced that wasn't a threat.

   He was waiting outside for the bus before his parents could drag themselves out of bed, his one desire being to leave before they could recount the previous night's events and see where things tilted sideways. It wouldn't matter, anyway. They couldn't use Will again. He was seen by somebody involved with the club, which presumably meant he was involved with the Wolf directly. He was given a direct warning to not return to that side of town in its entirety. Leon and Bella might not care so deeply about what happened to him, but Will fancied his life; therefore, he wouldn't dare tread through those doors again.

   The failed attempt was all that ran through his mind during school hours. He didn't even think about how tired he felt and didn't stop recounting to decipher what he did incorrectly, even as he dozed off during geography and physics. Somehow, as if people could sense that today simply was not a pleasant day and he wasn't in a pleasant mood, the teachers didn't prod him awake. They let him sleep. Mr. Clark, Will's favorite teacher out of the entire high-school faculty, even provided him his jacket as a makeshift blanket. Will, frankly, couldn't have been more grateful.

   The kindness displayed at school did not match the environment at home. Leon and Bella were still huddled around the table, pieces of crumpled paper scattered on the floor as they devised yet another scheme to fix the mess they had made. When they heard the door creak open, their heads snapped up from the pens they scribbled with. Both muttered a simultaneous "Will," Bella beckoning her son forth with a crisp wave of her hand. Will could see ink blotches and briefly wondered how long they had been sitting there.

   "We'll go back in tonight," Leon said, "and do it right this time."

   "I won't do it again."

   Will seemed to have been ignored. "I'll sneak you in. Sweet talk better, Will." Bella didn't usually pipe in during the discussions of their next plan, it usually being Leon who gave the commentary. "Linger in the crowd this time. I'll make sure somebody spots you and they should bring you up to the Wolf. Be sure," she stressed, "that you catch his attention. Don't let him throw you out again."

   It was against his better instincts to contradict his parent's plans, but the boy shook his head in retaliation. "I won't be objectified like that. Besides..." He nearly cowered beneath his father's gaze, but his confidence forced him to hold his ground. Will's shoulders straightened. "I wasn't thrown out. Somebody led me out through the back entrance. It wasn't the Wolf but he was apart of the club. Second in command, maybe. He told me not to go back."

   "How do you know?" Leon asked. "None of us know what he looks like - just where he is."

   "You said the Wolf would call me 'little pup' but whoever it was called me 'darling.' You also said the Wolf would be eager to have his hands on me. This guy just wanted me out."

   Bella turned her gaze to her husband who looked equally as skeptical. They seemed to have come to an equal agreement, one they kept silent from the only other witness in the room. Then, without saying a word, both parents stood.

   "We'll be back tomorrow tonight."

   "Dinner is in the fridge," Bella muttered. "Preheat the oven to what the box says and don't bother saving some for your father and me."

   Will let his bookbag drop to the floor. His algebra textbook spilled out, along with loose papers filled with unorganized notes taken during what classes he managed to stay awake for. "Where are you going?" He asked, but the question wasn't answered. Bella and Leon walked directly past him and his discarded bag to retreat their jackets, just as silently slipping them on. "Where are you going?" Will repeated. Repeated again. His mother swiped the truck keys from the kitchen counter. " _Where are you going?_ "

   They left without giving an answer.

* * *

   There were some days when Hannibal simply didn't have patience.

   There were days when he wanted to wrap his hands around every passerby's throat, and other days when it was just the rude ones that got underneath his skin like an agitating parasite.

   Today, however, was difficult to cope with.

   Two hundred thousand disappeared from the nightclub's funds - two hundred thousand that Hannibal collected during his recent trip to Lithuania, a trip that he did not happily embark on. _A_ _waste of time_. It was only the single thread of self-control that saved him from splitting Darius' skull open with nothing more than a dinner knife. That thread saved Matis from receiving a bloody end when he delivered the news early in the morning three weeks after his last visit to the club, mere hours after he disembarked from the jet he took to get to and from Lithuania. He wasn't in a pleasant mood then, and he surely wasn't now. He was fit to go on a happy murder spree, certainly if that lightened his spirits. He more enjoyed plotting the deaths of those who stole from him. When one steals from Hannibal Lecter, they steal from the Lecter family. Nothing, not a hair, was to be touched on his business. Hannibal was the father of his organization, the biggest wasp amongst a hoard of minuscule others. He had the most painful sting and it, without a doubt, would surely be felt.

   "How does two hundred thousand go missing?" It was nearly a yell. Matthew was less composed in the chaos of the missing money. He had been pacing for the last hour, steps carrying him across the estate as Hannibal sat with a pen, paper, a phone, and a gun. "Who the fuck is able to steal that much money without it getting noticed until two goddamn weeks later?"

   "The more probable solution to our issue, Matthew, would be to aid in the search for who the thief is." Hannibal tapped the pen against the pad of paper in impatience. "Pacing and cursing are not going to do anything but irritate me. How will I discover who stole from us if I'm busy _beating you to a pulp?_ "

   If the threat was genuine, Matthew did not take it as such. "Two hundred thousand," he repeated. "Right from under our fucking nose!"

   Hannibal ran a hand through his graying hair. He could feel his irritation rising from the depths of where he had pushed it back so far, but he couldn't take it out on Matthew. Brown was too valuable to upset and equally as dangerous in his anger. "Check the records. See if there were any underground transactions. Have somebody analyze security footage from the last month. This wasn't a plan done on the whim. They must have visited frequently and stayed for no longer than an hour." Hannibal stood and began collecting the receipts he was analyzing before his patience wore too thin to even do that. He simply needed to work in whatever room Matthew was not in. "They had to break into your office or they would not have been able to collect the information needed. Are you prepared to assume that this was an inside job?"

   Matthew knew what strength it took for Hannibal to even consider that one of his own had displayed such a drastically ignorant amount of disloyalty. A Mafia family was established on trust, a trust that was deadly to underestimate and break. Matthew couldn't fathom that one of his men would aid in stealing from him, for they had experienced his wrath first hand when just _ten_ thousand was stolen three years ago by an amateur, cocky made man. Ten months into the business and he thought he could have it all - that he could betray Matthew Brown and Hannibal Lecter. Matthew was sure to prove that they didn't claw their way up to the top by scamming the ones who took them under their wing. This wasn't a game, and that boy surely learned his lesson through Hannibal's hand. "I know my men and they are not that fucking stupid." He could see the tinge of disapproval settling on Hannibal's lips being pulled into a thin line. "Look, Hannibal, I know you enjoy not being in the middle of this shit. I don't either. You go away on the trips and I stay here to run things and in that time I got to know the men we employed. The story of you taking that kid's fingers and shovin' them down his throat still hasn't been buried in the ground with the kid himself. They wouldn't turn their back on you."

   "I fed him to his hounds."

   Even Brown, with his years of experience in the art of Hannibal's anger and irritation, grimaced. "Either way, they're not stupid."

   Hannibal shrugged on his blazer. His jaw set as he swallowed his disagreement. He may not have been directly involved for years now, but he wasn't foolish enough to so quickly place his trust in anyone. There were things he wouldn't tell Matthew - a friend he had known for two decades and worked together hand-in-hand with, for the mere fact that he didn't trust him to possess the knowledge of what was withheld. He wouldn't be quick to dismiss the idea of being betrayed on the inside of his sturdy walls. Darko was naive with the trustworthiness of his men, nearly as blind as he was with women.

   "Do as I said."

   If there was a disagreement to be made, Hannibal did not stay to hear it.

* * *

 

    Will had an unusual two weeks. He was quite accustomed to his father's gloomy disposition and his mother's depressive state. What caused them to be such a way was never known, nor told,  but it was easy to ignore when he chose to let it be. He had tried all that he could think of throughout the years, from doing his best in his schoolwork to applying for low-paying jobs that he could manage to snag, to trying to not be there at all. He couldn't etch a smile on his mother's face and couldn't get a simple 'I'm proud of you' out of his father. But that was fine, that was normal.

   This was not normal.

   Bella hugged him two weeks ago when he came home from school the following afternoon they up and left without much warning at all. She wrapped her arms around his thin waist and pushed his head into her shoulder, a real, very genuine smile making her look like an entirely different woman. Leon was gone the entire Saturday morning to place thirty thousand in Will's college fund, pay off their overdue mortgage, heating, and light bills, and take them on a dinner date the following evening. Bella insisted Will order lobster, because it's supposed to be exquisite and, in turn, expensive. Will didn't like it in the slightest, but shoved down his personal being for the sake of his mother and ate the lobster without a fuss.

   Leon seemed to be the happier of the three. Bella was a new mother - caring, sensitive, observant, but she hadn't gone so far off the deep end. Leon was, in every way, a whole new man. He finally employed himself into an actual job and no longer fret over the next heist and who else Will needed to seduce for their joint sake. "You saved our asses." Leon reminded Will of it as often as he could. Will did not know how, especially after his utter failure at the nightclub heist, but never argued over the concept and did not ask how he saved them. The evening they left him alone at the house was one during which something monumental must have happened, for Will was well aware they never had the money to pay off all three house bills at once. Certainly, he knew, to lease a new truck on top of it all.

   Bella decided to have breakfast for dinner, a concept Leon loathed. "Breakfast should be breakfast, and dinner should be dinner. Waffles are _not_ dinner, dear." Leon made it sound like the idea of it was too appalling to bear, and Will, who couldn't recall the last time he honestly thought anything his father said to be entertaining, laughed from the next room at the dinner table. He was setting the usual three places - or what was usual now - and heard his mother laugh too. _Dear_. Leon wasn't one for pet names almost as much as he wasn't one for breakfast at dinner. Will couldn't help but sigh in agitation. He should be happy - he had every reason to be; still, his parents' sudden happiness was like a tapper on his own mood. They kept the cause of their joy hidden for him... Perhaps they wouldn't if he only plucked up the courage to ask _why._

"One or-" The question was interrupted by a hurdling scream that unmistakably belonged to his mother. Will dropped the knives held in his fist at the mere shock of it splitting across the room. Leon yelled something the boy couldn't quite hear - _Will, out_... He dropped beneath the table. There were moments to be courageous and others to be the coward underneath the table. Will could kiss and tell and never second-guess himself, but the gunshot made him quiver. He questioned who it hit first, then who shot the gun. It wasn't Leon - they had gotten over _those_ quarrels years ago and came to terms that neither were able to provide. Will remembered those. Leon would have screamed his frustrations first and Bella would have been sobbing, but there was none of that. He could hear someone speaking in the opposite room. The conversation was spoken by foreign voices that both belonged to men, one deeper-voiced than the other. Will's head hit the table as another shot spit the hardwood floor, his mother's surprised scream echoing after it. "Stop!" Leon. One of the foreigners laughed at him and Will sucked in a breath, expecting a fist to collide with his father somewhere and to hear the sound crack throughout the entire house. There was nothing but continued speaking.

   "Se află trei. Găsește băiatul." ( ~~There are three, find the boy~~ ) It sounded Russian, Will thought, and decided that whatever they said couldn't have been an encouragement to cower out from beneath the dining room table. He was not given a choice, however, as the collar of his shirt was pulled. It wrapped around his neck with a firm twist and pressed into his larynx, creating the sensation of his very throat being ripped. Will's hands immediately went to clutch at his throat but he found that the collar of his shirt was impossible to simply tear with his trembling hands. Then, just as he was considering giving up at clawing at what and who was choking him his knees hit the floor with a painful crack. Bella crawled to her son's side out of concern, but Leon barked at her to stay back. "Movement will only agitate them," and he wasn't wrong. One of the four men standing in the room shifted to clutch Bella's wrists behind her back.

   "Dad-" Will breathed the name, though the whisper was far too choked for it to be heard coherently; regardless, his father's head craned to the side to give him a look of warning. Leon was peculiarly calm for having a gun to the base of his skull. "What - What did you guys do?"

   "That's what I would like to know," a distinctly foreign man interjected, "How the fuck did you three idioți ( ~~idiots~~ ) pull off this stunt?"

   Neither Bella or Leon decided to recount the details of whatever it is they had done and Will did not because he was just as rightfully clueless as the one questioning. He looked expectantly at his father, then to his mother, and when both his parents did not speak a word Will decided to intervene on their behalf. The man was not looking any more patient than he had before. "What stunt?" He asked. A hand curled into his hair and yanked his head back. Will hissed more out of fear than pain. The hand belonged to the one who was seemingly in charge of the intruding party. "We haven't' done anything!" Will insisted. "Tell him, Dad."

   Leon's head snapped back and his gaze focused back on to the floor. The man tsked in disappointed and pressed the barrel of the gun closer to the top of Leon's skull. Will watched the trigger. "Oh, yes, _Dad_. Tell me exactly what you and your two scorpii ( ~~bitches~~ ) did to earn my attention." The safety pulled back and Will partly expected to have Leon pour the details of the heist to the one putting a gun to his head; on the contrary, Leon stayed silent even when the gun's barrel moved to press into Will's temple. The boy's eyes squeezed shut until stars were imprinted into his darkened vision. Bella made a sound and the man looked at her expectantly, chin inclined and his gaze piercing through her hesitance. "Do as I said before a bullet goes through your little pup's head."

   Will felt his blood chill. It wasn't the threat - no, he hardly heard _that_. The man could feel his captive tense beneath the threat and must have assumed it was that, for he laughed coldly and pressed the barrel further until Will's chin was nearly touching his chest. If he was to be ended, it was to be brutal. It was two words that made him feel nauseous and dizzy, two words he was warned about before but never heard. _Little pup_. The nickname his next theft victim was supposed to use on him two weeks prior during an unsuccessful scam. The two words he was expecting then and forgotten until now. "I can't fucking-" He was seething, fists clenched at his sides as he was continuously forced to stay away from his father's shameful gaze. Bella cried, whether because of the gun to her son's head or the fact that her secret was now realized, Will did not care. She was apart of it. "You... Kept it from me. Bought all of this and didn't me why or how and now - Jesus, you tried again."

   "And we did it!" Leon was proud and it was evident in the exclamation. Bella cried a little louder. "Your mother and I did it and we used it to pay off everything. We were going to set aside some and put the rest in a safety deposit as your college fund. But Bella, your mother, she must have said something to someone." She didn't disagree, but she didn't stop sobbing long enough to do so. Will felt that she was pathetic, but loathed his father's very existence furthermore. "We wouldn't have gotten caught."

   "Shut the fuck up!" The stranger yelled, the command being directed towards Bella. She was quieted with a hand over her mouth, but her cries were only muffled. The stranger - the Wolf - looked ready to begin using the weapon he carelessly flaunted. "You stole from me and you thought it would go unnoticed? Your curvă ( ~~whore~~ ) was seen by a friend of mine. If you're going to steal two hundred thousand from someone, plan a little more fucking thoroughly." Will swallowed a thick lump of alarm. He wondered, briefly, if he had heard the numbers incorrectly, but there was no mistaking it. His parents stole two hundred thousand from one of the most powerful international corporations. They stole from the Wolf and that would not go unpunished, that Will knew. "You are fucking stupid, that you are. I'm going to put a bullet through your wife's head first, then your son, and let you suffer as you watch them die for _nothing_." He spat on the ground and Will flinched. "I'll take my time on you."

   Someone from behind cleared their throat. If he was able to, Will might have turned to see where the sound originated from; however, in his current position, a move of his neck would have the possibility of being seen as a threat. Will stayed still, for that was all he could do. He felt the gun move then had the pressure of the barrel removed entirely. The boy's gaze flicked away from the floor as the sound of shoes clicking against the tile sounded, these steps lighter than the others.

   "Și nici măcar nu ai sunat?" ( ~~And you did not even call?~~ ) He didn't look, but he knew it was a new voice added to the mix of company. "Tu îmi iei poziția și nu mă suni, rușinos." ( ~~You take my position and do not call me, shameful.~~ ) The steps sounded closer, only the matter of a few feet away from Will who still remained crouched on the ground out of reverence to their stronger position. He doubted he could have hurt any of the men in the room, and therefore did not try. "So this is Leon, Isabella, and William Graham. The trio that has caused so much trouble." The stranger, still unnamed, sounded oddly amused. It was a great contrast to the Wolf, who appeared to be seething with an unquenchable anger. Will found his calm to be even more unsettling. "I must admit, I thought you would be more impressive."

   "Impressive or not, we stole from you," Leon retorted, "so don't undermine us."

   The man cocked his head to the side, a wide smile playing on his lips. It looked purely sinister and although Will did not pick up his gaze to see it, he could hear it in the man's voice. "Proud, are you?" The man's shadow moved in the glare from the light above, allowing Will to know that he had crouched down in front of Leon. Will could hear the irritation now. "Would you be so proud if it meant the life of one of you?" He hummed. "I wouldn't kill you, no. Death is too good for you, though I won't stop my friend from bringing you to its borders."

   "You want to know how we did it." It was a statement more than an inquiry, though Leon's voice momentarily shook with the fear that pushed up his throat and through his stubbornness. It was a desperate attempt to sway the man to give them more time, perhaps to find a way out or for Will to seduce every man in the room out of killing them. There was a moment of silence before the man mumbled a disgruntled "yes" and Leon perked up excitedly. But, he was swiftly interrupted before he could speak a word to explain the details of the heist. "I'm well aware of how you did it, and well aware of why. Why you acted in a moment of foolish desperateness is beyond me, but I can look past it and find sympathy for one of you."

   "So you won't hurt us?" Bella asked, her voice hiccupped from her previously uncontrolled crying. Will could only assume that it was the man's calmer disposition that had given her control, despite his threats of pain to be endured. "Any of us?"

   That same smile pulled at his lips and Will felt his stomach churn. "I will hurt you, my dear, make no mistake of that." He watched her hopefulness crumple as quickly as it had built. "I said _one_ of you," he continued, "and that one is certainly not you or your spouse." He turned, then. Will flinched as new contact gripped his chin, pulling his head up from its shameful and fearful bow. His quiet calm melted away in a pool of deeply colored caramel orbs, ones that were half-lidded and seemingly dazed. Will's own blue eyes were wide and alarmed, but even his trembling frame did not seem to perturb the one keeping a hold upon his chin and, regrettably, his gaze. "Hello, darling." It was a coo in the way it rolled off the man's tongue, just as silky and deceptive as the first time Will heard it. He doubted it held the same kindness as it had before, and he did not expect to find himself unharmed in the wake of two powerful men's anger. The man was not showing it, but it was certainly there crawling beneath his skin. "Funny I should meet you here after our last encounter. I remember telling you to stay out of trouble."

   Will whipped his head to the side in an attempt to free himself of the man's hand, but it was to no avail. The grip only tightened. "You're the one causing trouble," the boy retorted, "and hurting me."

   As if it was a shock, the man removed his hold entirely. Will shrank back against someone's legs - whose, he did not know, and the cruel laugh from behind did not stir him. "I know you had nothing to do with this, darling. I won't say the same for your past, but I know you were not involved in this theft." If the knowledge was meant to be comforting, Will did not react so. "You were at school the past two weeks, and if you were not at school you were working in the boatyard, and if you were not there you were enjoying yourself with Beverly Katz. Lovely girl, she is, and quite informative. You walked home every evening and found your parents here every night - aside from two. They were gone for two days." He paused, took a step closer, and was only the matter of six inches from Will when he decided to speak again. "Would you like to know where they were?"

   Despite himself, Will nodded. He couldn't pretend that being blind had stirred an agitation in him, nor the discovery that they had stolen again. He understood his parent's reasoning for leaving him unknowing of where the sudden money had come from and, if he asked, would have said the lottery. He knew better, so he never did as. Being blind had both saved him and damaged him, for he knew he could have stopped the situation before it ran this far if only he had known.

   Bella stirred. A smack sounded throughout the room but Will did not look. "They were staying at a motel a mile away from my home. They trespassed onto my grounds and stole what was inside the property." The man stood. "It was quite rude. So, as you can imagine, I am going to demand the two hundred thousand be returned to me and, just to repay the crime done unto me, I am going to steal from you."

   There was a moment in which all three of the guilty party was left in bewilderment to decipher the exact item that would be taken. Then, Leon shook his head and Bella began to cry once more. There was nothing more that he could steal, for they had nothing but what was bought with the money they stole. He didn't have any desire for it; if anything, it would be returned to recoup the money lost. He was looking for something more prized than any house mortgage or a new truck. He wanted something valuable to the ones who stole from him.

   "Wait outside, William."

   It was contrary to what his head was screaming, contrary to reason and his very values, contrary to what his mother was screaming from behind and contrary to what his father was arguing against - but Will did as he was told. When the front door fell to a close, so did a bullet.

 


	4. Toleration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is introduced to his new home, and to his captor. Nothing is sweet, but it shouldn’t have been expected to be.

   It was the same car he had taken weeks ago, how many he could not exactly recall. He recognized the feel of the seats in their genuine leather, hardly used and barren of stains or dirt or the markings of use. The windows were streakless, the cupholders empty, the speakers behind his head quietly playing chapter seventeen of  _Relic,_ which allowed Will to know it was the same driver that had taken him home upon explicit orders. D'Agosta was cussing. It reminded him of the brute that dragged him into the car by the collar of his shirt and Will, who remained to be in a dazed state of shock, decided to be upset about how stretched the collar of his shirt was rather than the unknown state of his parents. The brute had laughed, something cruel and malicious, said "you'll get a new one" and slammed the car door shut. From then on, it proceeded to be a relatively silent ride.

   The driver did not speak and did not comment on any of the happenings in the book he was listening to. Will was not interested. There were few times when his breath hitched during the unexpected bump in the pavement, to which never grew into anything more. The driver did not ask if he was alright, if the one time he bumped his head on the roof of the car hurt, or if he wished for the audible novel to be muted. Whatever he wanted was put into oblivion, but the background noise of voices settled into a comfortable atmosphere and the occasional bump was enough to keep him awake and alert, no matter how much of a haze he appeared to be in. Where he was headed, however, was left to his imagination. The back windows were tinted so darkly that he could see the shadows of trees and nothing more; the shield between the next level of the car and his was separated by a plate that left him with the sight of black plastic and nothing more, leaving him entirely unaware of the final destination and clueless as to what was to happen to him. There was no clock, no watch, and he left his phone on the kitchen counter. He did not know how long they drove, but that it was quite some time before they appeared to have come to a halt. Will thought he heard a garage door close, the buzzing insistent before it disappeared entirely. Then, his gaze flicked up from his palms to the face turned to him.

   "What do you want?"

   They were at a chain restaurant, about two cars from the window. The driver's face was not unkind but did not imply that he was willing to wait for Will to deliberate on what looked appetizing. Will muttered a careless "I don't care" and it seemed to be good enough, for the driver turned back around and pressed faintly on the gas pedal, carrying them forward to order.

   He did not listen to the meals that were requested and did not eat until they had driven for what felt like an hour. He did not know how much time passed, for the black screen was up again and he had not thought to glance at the clock while it was down for those brief moments. The first mistake, he thought, the second being neglecting to take the chance to knock the driver on the head and run his way home. The idea of it seemed easier than actually pursuing and doing it. They stopped for gas twice, one time being the single other occasion in which Will received a bottle of water and was allowed to use the restroom with a close eye standing outside the door. He should have kicked the driver in the knees then, or scream that he was being kidnaped, or stolen a phone and called the police. Or his father. Or his mother. Were they alive? Probably not.

   The car ride resumed. He did know what time it was now, due to the clock above the cashier's desk. It was four in the morning. Will calculated that he had been in the car for ten hours since he abandoned his parents, which meant he was two states away from his home. The air felt different - he was suffocating on it. He guessed they were on the southern border of the states. At this time of the year, it would have been colder in New England, but it was hot and stuffy and particularly uncomfortable. Will didn't like the south. He hated Louisiana then. Was that where he was going? No. He asked and received that much of an answer, no matter how vague and undetermined it sounded. Silence resumed.

   His stomach was growling again. His palms pressed into his stomach as if he could silence it, and he imagined having the pancake dinner his mother had made. He didn't enjoy pancakes much.

   He was unsure of how much longer they were driving but assessed, based upon how long the ten hours felt, that two more hours had passed. He was beginning to run out of things to imagine, lines in his palms and loose threads in his jeans to count, scenarios of escape to dream up in a tired and hungry haze before the door to his right finally opened. He was hit with the smell of gas. It was overpowering and made his head throb. A dozen cars were lined up, some being worked on in the early morning hours, some unattended, Will's being pulled forward to join the line. He watched with his head craned to the side as the trash from his belated dinner was tossed out, and then his chin was grabbed and his gaze was torn. It was not the driver's hand but another's more rough and calloused that yanked him back to attention. Three steps up and they reached a door that led to a corridor, that led to a far-too exquisite mud-room, that led to an entryway.

   The floors were almost all marble or ceramic tile. One room split into a darkly colored wood but such a view was blocked by a closed door. The walls were white or gray, nothing eccentric in color or showing any sort of personality. The decor was an art of some kind, whether a painting or a stone bust of some historical figure. Antiquities were scattered throughout, but the walls upon walls of books were what truly caught his eye. As they passed in hurried steps Will caught authors such as Poe, Dante, and Homer. Whoever lived here had a taste for the arts. There was a box full of tickets from operas upon one table, all in foreign languages from what Will could see of the top layer that covered many beneath. Whoever it was enjoyed traveling. Will could breathe a sigh of relief, for he assumed that meant whoever lived here was gone often. He would not have to endure their constant presence, and such an assurance was a comfort.

   “You sleep here.” The door was twisted open by the man who had driven him here, who looked like he was living on caffeine and 5-hour energy drinks. Will nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t have to sleep with _them_. Another comfort. “Clothes are in the closet,” the gruff man informed, “and the bathroom is next to it. Shower and dress within the next hour.”

   Even if he wanted to ask what he was required to pamper himself for, he could not. A stiff knock to his knee by the toe of a boot had him stumbling into the bedroom, catching himself before he could fall, and cursing under his breath as he knocked a vase of roses to the floor. It did not break, to his great luck, but spilled the water and the roses to the floor.  He was scrambling to collect the flower vase as the door slid to a close.

   “Hannibal’s taste is becoming bland.”

   The vase shattered as it dropped from his surprised hands. Will flinched as the ceramic cracked into four separate pieces, chips of it burying into the carpet. It was nearly to the table before the voice spoke, monotone and quite clearly exasperated by the new presence, scaring Will as he thought he was finally alone.

   A blond woman sat on the edge of the bed, a glass of wine held in one hand, the other resting on the crimson fabric of her dress upon her thigh. Will’s expression was indecipherable. One of her pale, brown eyebrows rose incredulously, her gaze falling on the broken vase and rising to the boy’s eyes. She did not appear pleased. “Well, clean it up,” she pressed, “the roses will die, otherwise.”

   “Who’s Hannibal?” Will inquired. He half expected to find his question go unanswered, but the woman’s voice spoke around the rim of her glass. “The man I should assume quite recently killed someone you know,” she replied. “Parents?” Will nodded. “Hannibal is your kidnapper, then.”

   Will had a name to associate with a face, something he feared he would never receive. Then, without thinking before asking, Will asked: “did he kidnap you?”

   The woman laughed. Why he did not know. She pursed her lips, thin and painted a shade of red to compliment the dress she wore, and shook her head. Her curls bounced with the action. Will decided she was pretty; a bit rude, perhaps, but pleasing to the eyes after looking at nothing but the interior of a silent car for possibly twelve hours. "Kidnap is not the term I would use to describe my predicament." He saw her smile, if only just briefly. "Yours, yes. Now, clean up. Your kidnapper is not pleased by..." Her eyes skimmed him from head to foot and Will found himself shifting, uncomfortable but blushing underneath her gaze. Then, after a moment, she chose to discontinue the thought and resumed to tasting her wine. Will was intelligent enough to obey, even if she was kind enough to not force him. Her posture was suggestive enough that she wanted the process hurried, perhaps to fill her glass or to leave his company entirely. Will presumed it was both, and so he stuffed the neglected roses into the ice-cold water sitting on the bedside table, what the woman had grabbed before deciding wine was more on call for the situation. _A new boy_. Not even the whole storage of wine could prepare her for the next handful of months.

   The bathroom was nothing less than what Will expected. All white, gray accents, pristinely clean, a bathtub large enough for three. The water need not heat for minutes at a time like at his home, but spurt hot water the moment the knob was turned. Will's hand retreated as the pour of water felt too hot, stinging his fingertips. It was a process before he found a temperature that would suit him and combat the enveloping warmth that spread throughout the room and the warmth that heated his veins as he could feel eyes lingering on him, even as he shed of the shirt that he had worn for two days now. She wasn't wrong to state that it wouldn't please Hannibal, as Will doubted it would please anybody. He was a teenage boy, unable to shower for two days, locked in a stuffy car - it was putrid.

   He was more than glad to slip into the water. The woman was gone now, wherever she may be unbeknownst to him, and he found himself uncaring of the fact. He heard the bed shift just as his thumbs hooked into his jeans and had assumed she left at that moment to respect his privacy to an extent. Then she was back, heels clicking against the tile. Will found himself staring at her legs, long and slim and golden, thighs disappearing beneath the hem of crimson. She seemed to not notice the moment of indecency or chose not to care. Will was not daring enough to steal another glance, but cautious enough to focus on letting himself have some decency, as much as one could get while nude in a bathtub barren of suds and color. The woman did not seem intent to spare him another glance, though, as she laid his clothes in the sink. Dark washed jeans and a white tee. Simple, conventional, what he would have worn on any other day to school. Surely more expensive, he thought, but ordinary enough.

   "Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. I expect you to be on time. Ask Matis to guide you there."

   "You're leaving?"

   The woman glanced back to him. She pushed back a curl and Will wondered if it was a flirtatious or an unconscious gesture. "I must welcome Hannibal, although I am sure he would be glad to see you first. Hurry. He won't appreciate it if you are late."

   Will decided to obey, if only because she was too pretty to disappoint.

 

* * *

 

    Matis was the man who drove Will to the establishment he was housed in now. He was kind, more than expected to be, and had a more sincere disposition than the rest. He was not bitter towards Will, pulling on his shirt, calling him names, whispering meaningless threats behind his back. None had truly done so, but it was a fantasy whirling in his imagination. He found himself glancing behind his back with each sweeping breeze that poured through the numerous cracked windows, never finding a direct figure, but assuming they were lurking somewhere. There was a man standing at select doors and it reminded Will of the Queen's guards, with the way they stood. If they were slouched, Matis' order corrected the slackened reverence. Still, even his commands sounded like a father only trying to correct his child; he might as well have been, for none of the men or women standing guard acted bitter or displeased. They only obeyed, much like Will.

   He was led to the door that broke off from marble to ebony wood. The double doors opened with a slight push of a hand, nothing too rough against the tinted glass. A kitchen was revealed - marvelous and excellent and made for a true, dedicated chef. There were appliances the boy had never seen before, never known were needed or necessary, and ones that were basic enough that even his simple mind could recognize and name. The fridge was at least two times larger than the one at home. Everything was new, save for the special appliances that looked ancient but clean. Everything was sleek. Will felt like he was standing in a palace made for a king.

   "I hope the drive here was not miserable."

   Hannibal appeared in the kitchen, evidently lurking in the pantry that contained all of his spices and grains. He was holding two bottles when he returned, one bottle containing a fine powder and the other housing a dozen leaves of some kind. The label was too small to read and Will, befuddled and entranced, all the same, did not ask. The boy shrugged. He did not know what to say for the ride had not been pleasant in its drowning silence, but not miserable as he had suggested. Will had nothing to do but stare at the floor and count the specks of dirt from his shoes but he supposed it was better to be alone than to have the barrel of a gun pointed into his skull. He assumed his fate was better than the one his parents had received, but, truth be told, he hadn't thought about them since he left. Shock, perhaps, or the absence of them being so accustomed to that their lack of presence hadn't quite settled. He had been given fair treatment since his arrival, so he had no reason to miss their poor care and poorer housing. It would settle in time, but it was not now.

   "It was fine," he replied. "May I ask where I am?"

   Hannibal's gaze lifted. It was still odd to think of him as _Hannibal_ , but refreshing as well. Calling him 'mysterious man' had grown dull over the few weeks he had flown across William's mind like a fleeting idea. "You could, and did." Hannibal retrieved a knife, the task of chopping chunks of steak being uptaken as he busied himself. "But you will not receive the answer you are looking for."

   The legs of a stool scrapped against the ebony flooring. The sound did not faze either male. "May I ask why I am here, then?"

   Hannibal momentarily stopped. He looked curious if anything. His head was tilted ever so slightly, his eyes narrowed suspiciously with no underlying accusation beneath. He was surveying. "Most would have themselves locked in a bedroom, begging to go back home; here you are, seating yourself in my kitchen, asking where and why, but not when."

   Will was seated, positioned in the middle of the table, directly across from his captor. Somehow, in some way, he met those caramel eyes without any trouble at all. He smiled, even. "Are you going to give me a reason to do just that?"

   The chopping resumed. Will heard each time the blade came into contact with the bamboo cutting board and watched as the meat split beneath the force, the methodical action of Hannibal sliding each inch long and wide piece of meat into a separate bowl; never cutting his fingers, never making a piece drastically bigger or smaller than the other, never struggling in the task. His fingers were slick with the bloody juice, embedding into his nails, coloring his skin pink. His hands appeared rough and calloused from work. Soft, still, in the bed of his palm as he turned the knife over with a swift twist. He made precision look effortless. "I have offered you a bedroom, my home. I'm making you dinner. I bought your clothes. If my hospitality is mistaken for arrogance I will consider it an offense, as would any. Greater, still, because that turn of events would damage the friendliness between you and me." He spoke without malice. "The only offense I believe I could have made was assuming you are not vegetarian. Nothing here is vegetarian."

   "Well, that would be a damper on our relationship." He saw the teasing cross Hannibal's mind, then saw it turn into something more serious. Will reiterated. "No, I'm not. You assumed correctly." Hannibal nodded. He began to speak, a single word managing to pass his lips before he was halted by an interruption. "Would you consider this friendliness?" The boy asked. Hannibal looked deeply wounded, whether by the interruption of the inquiry he could not tell. Both seemed likely. He must not get interrupted by any of his employees. "I would be stupid to beg. You would disregard it, tell me I had no choice, and my only resort would be to beg again. Then you would be angry and I have the most daunting feeling that I don't want you angry at me. _This_ is not friendliness. I'm tolerating you because I know I have no choice. I would be dead before I could leave the property."

   The meat was cut and beginning to soak in a marinade. The unnamed leaves were next to be under the blade to be diced. The rise and fall of Hannibal's wrist were quick but no less precise. "Were you tolerating me at the nightclub?" He asked, and his voice sounded distantly reminiscent. Will was satisfied to know he remembered. "I assumed you were thankful but, then again, you were playing a well-done facade of innocence. I mistook you for a lost boy."

   "No, you saw that correctly."

   "Lost because he despises what he must do, or lost because he does not know what is right?"

   There was a brief silence, one that only was broken by the faucet turning on. "Neither."

   Hannibal's back was turned away. Will watched his spine curve with each swipe of a soapy cloth against the used bamboo, disinfecting it from the harms of uncooked meat. It was left on a rack to dry. Hannibal was wiping his hands on an unlikely apron when he turned back around to face the boy. "You are here because you and your parents stole from me. Deny it as you might, but it is true. Your parents have received their punishment, and this is yours."

   Will's chin pressed into the heel of his palm. It was prickly, asking for a shave. His facial hair still grew in weirdly, and so he never let it grown out. "Being kidnapped from my family," he confirmed. "Taken away from home, leaving my parents behind."

   "No, I believe you wanted to leave home. Your international college applications said as much. France is quite far from Virginia and your parents could never cross the border, not with their records. You didn't choose France because the country is as beautiful as it is said to be. You wanted to leave your dear parents behind." Will would not admit it, not in a lifetime, he was aware that every mere assessment was, undoubtedly, correct. Hannibal would not let it be. "Staying here is not your punishment."

   "Then what is?"

   "Learning to tolerate me."

   Crude. Will spun on the stool, pressing his back into the edge of the counter. He couldn't look at Hannibal, not now, while he tried to gain some sense. It would be irrational to attempt to leave. Hannibal had a knife in hand and impeccable precision. He would, Will did not doubt, use it if he must. "I won't learn if I don't want to, but I won't stay here forever."

   "Why won't you?"

   There were dozens of answers Will could have given and several he was tempted to give. He could lie, tell a partial truth, but honesty seemed more appreciated in this household. He would learn to conform to that much. "I don't find you that interesting."

   "You will," Hannibal replied. It was said so simply that there was no room for questioning its meaning, of its honesty and truthfulness. It sounded confident, and it irritated the boy. "Ask Matis to retrieve Bedelia, please.”

   A second time he obeyed without questioning, even if just to receive a moment without Hannibal looming over him. He was too arrogant, too falsely kind. Will hated the false calmness he displayed, like nothing irritated him and nothing ever would. No matter the insult, no matter how frequent, he would not order Will to be dead. Death seemed more welcoming than where he was now and he longed for it with open arms, hoping Death’s arms were ready in return. A peaceful end sounded better than living the rest of his days out here, beneath the authority of an ignorant peacock.

   It was quite simple. He hated Hannibal.

 

* * *

 

   Dinner was a silent affair. Bedelia du Maurier, as she revealed herself to be, was a woman of few words. If she did speak it was towards Hannibal, who was enthusiastic in return. He offered smiles and kind compliments to both persons in his company and even without the enthusiasm in return, he appeared unbothered by the silence.

   Will ate in determined silence. He fought the urge to compliment Hannibal on the meal, unlike how Bedelia had. He swallowed resolutely. There were few times when he would catch Hannibal’s gaze lingering there like a magnet drawn to another, one more reluctant than the other. It was a handful of minutes before Bedelia decided she had had enough, when each of three were nearly finished with their meal and not as unwelcoming of conversation as when they first sat down.

   “So, have you spoken to your guest?”

   Hannibal swallowed and Will shifted. “I have,” the older male replied, “while I was preparing tomorrow’s dinner, as tonight’s finished. Would you prefer red or white wine with steak?” He was so agonizingly oblivious to the look Bedelia was giving, but Will understood it was entirely purposeful. “I always thought white complimented it well, although the red makes for a delightful pop of color.”

   “White is fine…” Her fork clicked against the plate. Will was still silently eating. “I can assume that our predicament has been discussed, then, and the party is absent of… bitterness?”

   “Are you planning on fucking me, then?” Will blurted. His grip on the utensil was tighter than necessary, his tone sharper than it should have been and his filter entirely wrecked. “If you just plan on keeping me? You’re not locking me here without some buried intention.”

   Hannibal looked to Bedelia as if asking if this particular conversation was welcomed and the woman only gave an exasperated nod, resuming the meal before her. Hannibal took up his glass, deliberately slow as he swallowed his wine, more so to set the glass back down. Will was defiantly patient. “I do not plan on sharing any sort of intimacy with you, whether it is welcomed or forced. As I said in my kitchen, you are only here to learn to tolerate me. My treatment will not change no matter how much you grow or lessen to despise me. You would be a fool to persist in your bitter hatred when I have and will give you all you need. You have no reason to hate me.”

   Bedelia must have seen the mistake. Hannibal must have seen the boy’s blood boiling in the midst of his anger. He could have, if only he looked. “I have every valid reason to hate you. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where my parents are or if they are even alive. I’ve abadoned my home and everything with it to run away with you - a pompous bastard who acts like he can pluck any child and act like it’s his. _You_ are a fool-“ he spat, “to believe I will do anything but hate you. I won’t ever stop hating you.”

   There was a moment in which not one in the party of three chose to spoke. Will was seething, Bedelia determinedly keeping herself away from the argument, and Hannibal was pondering in what could not be mistaken for anything but distressed shock. It angered the boy furthermore to know that Hannibal thought there was any chance at all that they could flourish into a friendship. How could they? “Hate is a strong word,” Hannibal finally muttered, “to describe something miniscule.”

   His fork clanged against the half-eaten plate. It scratched against the ceramic, leaving an ugly streak. Hannibal looked at the marking without any clear emotion, a mix of so many that it was impossible to decipher if it was solely anger or surprise. Will stood in silence for all of moment. _Waiting_. Waiting for some outburst, to be yelled at, to be pushed against a wall and to have his life threatened or taken away. Nothing came.

   “Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

   If he had looked back as he abadoned the dinner table, he might have seen the look that merely flashed across Hannibal’s face. The look of faint betrayal, of surprise, of hurt, but also the determined mindset to turn hate around and manipulate it into something grand and unmistakable and genuine.

   He was going to make Will love him, no matter what it took.


	5. Forgiveness Sought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal begin to experience domestication, or something close to it.

   He did not eat, no matter how appetizing any meal that was passed through the door appeared. He declined each dinner invitation with the complaint of a headache, a half-truth to mask his insufferable need to keep himself alone. He strayed from the very idea of being in anyone's presence, like a snake hissing at a predator. He did not want company, had no desire for it no matter who it was knocking on the door, did not ask for it, disregarded it, and loathed his being wherever it was that he was contained. He felt, rather begrudged, like an animal wrongly caged. Put on for a show, kept behind thick bars that were the people standing before his door, listening to his every movement for the opportune moment to enter with the next invitation, whatever that may be. He declined, and declined, and declined, and declined again. He tore the paper with the intricate script, the name Hannibal Lecter, a time and a meal and a promise for civilization. Will wanted to burn it along with the room and the entire house and everyone in it and he wanted to run, barefoot as he was, across thousands of miles to reach his home where his bed, his belongings, and his parents were. He wanted to go to school for the first time in his life and live his miserable life, join his parents in the next unsuccessful heist, wallow in the pity of it, and pray for a better day tomorrow. He did not want to be here. He did not want to be in the bedroom he kept himself captive in. He did not want to be in Hannibal Lecter's home.

   For three days he refused to eat. Three days he cried endlessly, buried in the duvet, curled up on the bed, wishing to be anywhere but there. His head throbbed, his skin burned, his eyes felt heavy and tight and strained. His stomach growled in a command to eat the plate of food on the bedside table and still, with all of his stubbornness burrowed in his heart, refused to listen to the needs of his body. He smelled, had tangled curls, felt like sandpaper at the touch. He hoped that being as putrid as possible, completely unbearable, that he would be freed. Such an end was far off, if anywhere at all. Hannibal was more patient than any man, and just as cruel.

   Bedelia du Maurier, the blond woman he first encountered upon his arrival to the Lecter mansion, never did ask of his well-being, therefore never bothered to check in. Will would not have let her enter, regardless of how confusingly kind and bluntly honest she was during their first encounter. It was not she that Will desired to ward off with his stubbornness. He had no desire to be seen like this, helpless and hopeless, considering using one of the six pillows to suffocate himself. She would be disgusted. Forever put-out by him, constantly remembering what his colorful cheeks looked like when they were wet with salt, how his nose ran, his ears pink with exhaustion, eyelids hardly able to stay open and awake.

   He was tired and he was drained, and he did not take notice of the bedroom door opening without invitation during the fourth day.

   "Take this, please."

   Will shrank into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest. The duvet was up to his chin, wrinkled and smelling just like him, like sweat and tears and four days without showering. He was beginning to consider a bath and was moments from taking one before Hannibal Lecter came striding into his room, two colorless pills on his palms and a glass of lukewarm water in the other hand. Will could not tell if he was apologetic, disgusted, repulsed, or sympathetic. He did not open his eyes and could not tell the sound of his voice alone. He hoped Hannibal was angry, prepared to kick him until he was bloodied and bruised and tossing him out. No such thing came. The bed dipped with added weight and an inch of skin became visible, skin that was touched by fingertips that felt like the brush of a ghost - afraid to touch, of the reaction contact would draw. If Will wanted to pull away, and he did, he was too weak to cower away. His limbs were sore and his lungs stung too terribly to utter words of a commanding departure. Hannibal knew, regardless, and simply didn't care enough to respect it. At any other time, yes, but not now. Will needed someone even if he refused to accept it.

   "Take it," Hannibal offered again. "Your head is pounding and I know it is. Put your pride aside for just a moment and accept my help. Then you may hate me all you would like." The medication was taken in one swift gulp. Will did not offer a look at the hand extended but blindly felt for the two oval pills and swallowed the water that was offered. It soothed his flaming throat and he drank again, gulp by gulp, obscenely loud but uncaring of the fact. Hannibal offered to fill the glass and Will shook his head. "Would it be foolish to ask you to eat?"

   Will considered. Just for the sake of being a pesky annoyance, he shook his head again and hid his head beneath the duvet. It was pulled back in that same moment, down past his shoulders, then his hips, until it was shed entirely. Still, Hannibal had not risen from the bed. He touched Will's temple with the back of his hand and his expression was purely dismayed, unsatisfied for various reasons but each going unspoken. Will pushed it away and turned on to his opposite side, back turned to the figure looming beside him and breathing something similar to a sigh of exasperation, just his name, _William_. "I understand your bitterness, I do. You have every validated right to despise my very being and nothing can stop you from viewing me as the Devil himself. I ask you, Will, and just this, that you consider my intentions. Think of your past life and its mistakes, and how all of it has been swept away."

   "My parents were not a mistake," the boy interjected. "They... You took me away from them because you are inhumanly cruel."

   Hannibal's palm burned against Will's back even through the layer of clothing between skin and skin. Will wanted to shy away from it and burrow himself so far that not even Hannibal could reach to pull him out. Somehow, he felt locked in place. "They had you stealing. Your parents made you into a thief and never felt any remorse for it. You stole for them and what did they do with the money, Will, for the past decade?"

   That familiar sting returned, burning and threatening. Will shook once, twice, and swallowed his response of deepest hatred. He could not tell who the hatred was towards, for the line between his parents and Hannibal began to blur. "I don't know," he admitted. " _I don't know._ "

   The palm ran the course of his spine, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. It caught every convulsion and every breath, whether choked or steady or somewhere in-between. It read every emotion without being told and without needing to look. It felt the moment Will began to cry and consoled him through it, never ceasing its soothing course. "You were looking to get away, Will. You needn't be anything but the innocent boy I encountered in the club. I am willing to accept that image if you are. Life could be simple here if you would allow it." The boy pulled the sheets to his mouth, wet lips pressing against the fabric. Hannibal reached to push back the facade of unkempt curls and find the blue eyes that had done nothing but cry and view with a scornful image overlaying every aspect of the home and its inhabitants. Hannibal desired to make it anew. He would, in time, with the right choice of words and enough understanding. It was simple to understand that Will was torn on where he desired to be, who he wanted to cling on to because he needed someone to latch onto. Hannibal was offering himself as plainly as he could. The boy's parents were miles away and perhaps that was deliberate, for Hannibal was as selfish as any. Selfish and cruel, yet just as capable of kindness. "I have no intention of harming you. I wish to offer you a life full of opportunities unhindered by poverty or incapability. I would be honored to have your acceptance - your tolerance."

   Will leveled his breathing - he had to, to piece together his thoughts. He heard every word plainly in its offer, an offer so obvious that there was no chance of mistaking it. There was no underlying catch. Hannibal wanted to provide. He did not want to take Will's purity away, or harm him, or make him suffer for his numerous crimes. Hannibal was willing to give him what he wanted with the sole intention that Will no longer locked himself away and slowly brought himself to an end through self-inflicted malnutrition. He wanted meat on the boy's bones, an education swirling in his mind, imagination coursing through his veins, sparking creativity and life and replacing the dull ache that inhabited him always. There was nothing cruel about it. It was all and everything Will wanted, vacant of his oblivious parents, and vacant of the hardships his parents presented. It was the greatest piece of generosity Will had and would ever receive and even through his sickening hatred, he could not let his pride keep him from living a life he did not deserve.

   "Think about it, darling." Hannibal's weight left the bed. Will's figure shook a final time and Hannibal let his fingers untangle from the curls, hand outstretched in an open offer to join him. "Bathe for awhile. It will relax you and then you and I can have a delightful breakfast if you so choose to join me."

   Will turned. He picked his head up from its bashful slouch and could see the momentary change in expression, pride, and happiness to something sorrowful. He was tempted to combat the expression with a meaningless assurance that he was alright, but in the next moment, his head was pressed against Hannibal's abdomen, hands sliding through his hair again, a quick apology fluttering past both man's lips. It was not Hannibal who pulled him near, but Will who hopelessly fell seeking an embrace, just the comfort of arms and of lips to assure him that he was and would be, eternally, alright. Hannibal gave him that, entirely incapable of telling the whole truth that he would always be alright, that this new life would constantly be perfect and he would never find himself missing his parents so terribly, but muttered that it was fine, that he was fine, that he could and would adjust. It was a painful turn to abandonment when he was the one always abandoned, like some sick revenge. Will would miss Bella and Leon and Hannibal knew he would, but it was not impossible to forget. Enough pampering and enough care could make his parents just a fleeting memory, as gone as quickly as a leaf in a breeze. There but far, carried away, to be rotted into the ground and gone entirely. It would take time, but they had enough of it to make it possible.

   "I'm acting like a child..." The boy muttered, his voice muffled against the blazer of a suit and rasped from its lack of use.

   Hannibal sucked in a breath, deep and slow and Will's head rose and fell with it. "You are a child, therefore you are entitled to have your moments." He hummed and swallowed a smile. Quick progression, faster than he had expected. "It's understandable. Don't fret over it."

   Will retreated quite suddenly and Hannibal was clutching on air. His hands fell to his blazer, pulling it straight, adjusting it to how it should properly fit. There were five wet blotches on the fabric but he disregarded them as quickly as if he hadn't noticed them at all. Without a beckoning or a command to follow, the boy trudged behind, watching as Hannibal turned on the bath, hand stretched beneath the flow of water to test its temperature. He was as particular as Will, reaching for the knob to adjust the amount of cold several times until it was satisfactory. He turned to the smaller figure behind him and offered a smile, a loose gesture to the filling bathtub. "What would you like for breakfast? Or brunch, I should say."

   "Food."

   Hannibal laughed. It was loose and airy and not at all cruel. "Quite specific. Well, do you enjoy eggs? That will narrow down the list significantly." Will nodded, the simplest of responses. "Miss du Maurier should return within the next hour. Take as long as you would like, and I will have your meal prepared, hot, and waiting."

   Will's mouth opened as if to speak, but nothing uttered from him. He shook his head and turned to the tub to watch the rippling water as it progressed to fill, once again free from the hindrance of soapy suds to cling to his skin. Then, as if Hannibal was capable of sensing his thoughts, he leaned over Will's should and poured a cap full of a yellow liquid into the stream of water, where the beginnings of bubbles began to form. The room began to smell of honey momentarily and Will found himself leaning over the edge, watching as it filled the blanket of a white cloud, emitting an aroma so pleasing that he felt his headache slip away - with the aid of aspirin, of course, but surely from the benefit of something pleasant as well. He was eager to dip his sore limbs into its enveloping warmth and never retreat from it even if he began to look like a prune by the time Hannibal came searching for him. Will had always taken showers, whether a bathtub was available or not; it was a default, to do what was quick and save what was possible. A shower seemed more logical in the aspect of conservation, but he supposed something such as that was minuscule here. Hannibal lived in a lavishing mansion and had the funds to pay a water bill or two, free of the worry of using more than he could afford. Will wondered, partially, if things were always so simple for him. He wondered if Hannibal ever experienced poverty and truly understood the hardships of it but he assumed not, for if he had the bundle of an income that Hannibal surely had, he would conserve it more wisely. Rent an apartment, focus on keeping bills steadily paid, rarely spending that which he need not. The artifacts, the art, all the books he couldn't possibly have had the time to read. Or did he?

   The boy discovered that he was alone, Hannibal having disappeared during that branch of thought. Will shed of the clothes he had been given, of the tee and the boxers that hang too loosely on his hips, and did not hesitate to plunge himself into the bath no matter how far the waterline crept. He was under, running his hands through his hair, holding his breath until his lungs hurt. When he surfaced he was not quite alone but had Hannibal Lecter unfolding and hanging a towel near the tub's edge at the ready for when he decided he had basked long enough. Will looked up, water clinging to his lashes, and expected to see Hannibal walk back through the doorway to wherever he often went, or to his kitchen to cook the promised meal. Instead of any such thing, Hannibal pulled the wooden stool near to the edge of the bathtub behind the child's head and seated himself upon it. Will sank further into the water. He was incapable of deciding if he desired to have the man's presence near or far and if he appreciated the company or desired to sulk in solely his own company. Even if he asked, he thought, Hannibal would think of some excuse. The water was to his chin, fastly filling, and Hannibal leaned well over him to turn the flow off completely. It was steaming but it was comfortable, furthermore when hands found his hair a third time.

   "Is there anything you would like, Will?" The question was presented in an earnest manner, just as Hannibal's fingertips soothed into the bottom of his skull. Will _would_ have purred if that was not so far beneath him. His single thought was, simply, _my parents_. He told himself no, that he needed to get along, and that the honest answer would only upset. When Will did not answer Hannibal did not see it as a sign of stubbornness. "Do you enjoy reading?"

   "Yes." Will slouched against the hot tub and felt Hannibal's fingers pull. His hands, thick and veined as they were, were lathered in a generous layer of soap and working the suddy liquid into his chocolate locks of hair that, rather desperately, needed a trim. His hair did not grow particularly fast, but it was beginning to become too much. Curly as it may be, it made him look five years younger and, being a teenager, was not always a good thing. “Anything but the books that make it to be a chick-flick. John Green has been crossed off my list since the day I was born.”

   “What of the old, respected pieces?”

   “What do you mean?”

   Hannibal wrapped the longest curl around his index. “Poe, Dante, Homer, Petrarca, Tasso… Shall I go on?”

   Will’s eyelids fell shut in peaceful harmony. Hannibal’s palm cupped to collect water, pouring it over his hair, always timid to keep it from his eyes. Not a drop passed his temple. “I don’t know. I’ve never read them. Never thought to.”

   “It is the classics in literature that are the easiest to enjoy. Dante has many great writings of love that are complex enough that it is not always a predictable utcome, such as that which he wrote to Beatrice.” A sixth pour, behind his pink-tinted ears. “I gained an appreciation for literature when I was young. It’s best to start out during youth in many things, and arts is, to me, one of the most vital. The human race would be nothing without arts but an automical, blank page.”

   “Are you always poetic?” Will asked. Hannibal couldn’t have feigned incredulity even if he desired to. “No,” the older replied, “if that is what you consider poetry; in which case, I have no choice but to introduce you to my favorites.”

   Afternoons full of sitting in bed, listening to a foreign accent recount the tales of names too difficult for Will to even attempt to pronounce seemed rather appealing, more so than sulking in bed with a pillow so stained with tears that it would never dry. The boy nodded in agreement, not too eager but not uninterested.

   “Dine with me and I’ll take you out to the pool, and you can listen to all the poetry you would like.”

   A promising offer. One he was not so quick to refuse - one that he did not decline at all.


	6. Calla Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronting certain feelings and new ideas. Some lowkey pinning.  
> Discussion of sex, nothing explicit, but desires are heavily implied.  
> Excited for the next chapter so I do plan to procrastinate on other things to write the next chapter. Probably will want to use another dose of caution then.

   The vast house provided little comfort. There were certain hours in the day when it was too loud to venture through a door, or too quiet to appease him to want to explore past the caging walls of his gifted bedroom. It was not a matter of being stubborn, of proving a point by keeping himself locked in the room, but a certain fear of not belonging anywhere outside the room. Of the people behind the doors, of what they would say and do, if he would be welcomed or ushered back in to truly be trapped in the bedroom's depths that, when pondering inside it for days, began to seem too small to fit his even smaller frame. Just turning the doorknob seemed an impossible task. Crawling from the bed, bathing, drained his very being of the energy it needed. His company was kind enough to offer dinner inside the bedroom, understanding of the challenges wandering past it presented. There was never a push, never any convincing line to guide him into the halls, or a forceful tug on his hand with nails scratching into his skin with the effort. Hannibal Lecter tolerated it, even allowed it. He never asked Will to leave the room, and surely never commanded it. Everything was, quite simply, up to him.

   It was mid-morning when Hannibal was usually away doing some kind of business that the man knocked on the door, then let himself in. Will was reading one Dante's writings that were one of the many novels Hannibal brought in from his many bookshelves, _La Vita Nuova_. He was only a few paragraphs in, just barely to where he began describing what little of a relationship he had with Beatrice when Hannibal presented the idea. The boy was slow to draw his gaze away from the page and slower to respond. When he did not, Hannibal repeated. "Would you object to joining me in Paris next week?"

   It was sudden - _too_ sudden. Will blinked, fingers moving to close the novel as it clung to the last pieces of thread holding it together, and breathed a dumbfounded "what?"

   "Paris," Hannibal said a third time, though with no less patience. "I will be on business for a few days there. I thought you would like to join, rather than staying here alone."

   Will shifted, just slightly. The sheets moved with him. "I can't go out of the-"

   "Do you think, in my area of business, that I am incapable of obtaining a satisfactory passport?"

   Will embarrassedly cast his gaze down to the book. The cover was peeled at the edges, giving the appearance of it being centuries old. He wondered where Hannibal found it. "I need my parents signature to leave. That seems impossible, considering..."

   "I obtained it."

   Will gingerly placed the book on the bed. Several of the pages were loose, some slipping past the cover. He figured he shouldn't have been touching it at all, constantly afraid it was on the verge of crumbling into ashes in his unsteady hands. "Do I want to know how?"

   "I asked," Hannibal replied, "and they gave it. Figuratively. I found a loose check."

   "Forgery. I'm glad you didn't have to hurt them for it."

   It was given in the most innocent manner possible, and Hannibal felt something within him churn as the boy's blue orbs turned up to him, brows pulled and his forehead wrinkling with it. He looked too young to be concerned if his parents were harmed at all, but despite it, there wasn't any guilt burying itself within Hannibal. He felt nothing and did not try to portray a guilt he did not feel. "No," he answered simply. The boy did not seem to find when the signatures were acquired to be important and so Hannibal did not offer the time and date. There was a silence that spread between them as thick as a braided fish line, just as impossible to break. Will's fingers skimmed the surface of the book, feeling the peeling paper, over the words _La Vita Nuova_ , translating to _The New Life_. This was his new life - timidness, loneliness, parentless, a sense of not belonging. Hannibal must have seen it turning the rusting clogs in his head for he attempted to provide some comfort with that warming, and yet terribly timid, smile. Will was not looking to catch it pulling at his company’s lips.

   “May I give my thoughts on the idea?” Will shrugged, and Hannibal pursued. “I would enjoy your company and I feel that it would benefit you to be elsewhere. I do not wish for this house to feel like a cage to you, Will."

   He could see Hannibal's mouth open to continue speaking, perhaps to follow the direction of convincing him with sweet encouragements to venture out of the bedroom. Will did not wish to hear it, not now when he was rather enjoying the quiet and Dante's writings. There was not anything outside of those four walls that seemed remotely appealing. He went out with Hannibal once and that seemed enough; and so, his interruption came as a surprise. "It's not the house," he interjected, "I can get used to that."

   "Then what is it?"

   The boy's head turned away, taking his cold gaze with it. Hannibal hummed a sound of disapproval, although his neutral expression betrayed it. He took a step forward to the bed and Will heard it, but chose to act as if he had not. Hannibal said his name once, another time after a moment of silence, and then waited a full minute as silence spread before them to say the child's name again but with a different tone, something more harsh and firm, like a whip to his skin - " _William_."

   "I don't like the people." The admittance was swift thereafter but choked as it gurgled up his throat. Hannibal stiffened, and as did the boy. "They have guns and God only knows what else."

   "They carry them to protect you, and that is all."

   "Were they protecting me when I had one to my temple?" It was a snap. Hannibal appeared as if he had been slapped, if only just momentarily, and faltered a whole millisecond before he was able to regain his cool and collected composure. Will was sharp and his gaze could have cut through the thickest ice like it was nothing but parchment against a freshly sharpened blade, clean and swift and potentially disastrous. He looked purely angry, the type that was vacant of righteousness but the deathly look that was meant only for the sake of cold revenge, to ravage whatever was in his path, Hannibal being the end of it. It was a look that made the child seem evil, not the vulnerable boy that had cried for days because of the loss of his parents, but as if he wished to crush the world and every person in it. Will felt the spreading coldness and crumbled, shoulders slouching, his gaze falling back down to his lap, to the sheet that covered his pale knees. "Sorry..." He muttered. It sounded heartbroken as it fell from his lips that trembled with either anger or remorse, something indecipherable in that very moment as he seemed so torn between what was right to feel.

   "Will." Hannibal smoothed out the rumpled bedsheets before he seated himself near the boy, but far enough away that William would not feel the need to cower away like proximity was poisonous. The contrast was great. Will unfurled from the sheets and crawled down to the edge of the bed where his company sat to sit beside him, thigh to thigh with Hannibal, yet so timid that his hands were shaking with the effort to keep himself as effortlessly calm as Hannibal. It did not matter how sleep deprived or rested he was, or how accustomed he was to Hannibal's shifting presence, he could not rid himself of that sense of being unwanted. It made him feel repulsed at his own self as if he needed to look like he was worth thousands to be equal to the other when he looked the opposite. Hannibal never seemed to mind - he did not, not at all. He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed, and not a moment passed before Will took it into his own. The boy's palms were in a cold sweat, his grip tighter than necessary and just as shaky, but it was firm and trusting. "I cannot ask my people to rid themselves of weapons. I need you to understand what they are for but also the boundaries that I have limited their uses to allow." His thumb skidded across the thin knuckles of Will's hand. "My employees will be as kind as I am to you. Have I tried to hurt you?"

   Ashamedly, almost, Will shook head. His hand retracted, leaving it bare.

   "Come to Paris with me." The insistence returned. Hannibal was daring to let his hand wander, fingertips hardly resting on the boy's knee. "It will do you good. There's much to see in France; we needn't limit ourselves to Paris."

   Will turned his chin up. The look of pure, unabashed innocence made something in Hannibal unfurl and blissfully flutter. It was sickeningly sweet. Hannibal felt as if he was stuck in a pool of honey, drowning in it and having it slicken his lungs, seep into his pores, engulf him so wholly that he was unable to be pulled from it. The simple call of "Hannibal" was too precious to comprehend and the man found himself sucked so far into a trance that he could not see the pondering look of confusion overtaking the child's face, as minuscule as the change was. “Think about it, if you’d like…” Hannibal finally muttered, “You mustn’t decide until tomorrow.”

   “That isn’t what I wanted to say.”

   Hannibal’s brow curiously arched.

   “I… Well, I wanted to - nevermind.”

   “What is it?” Hannibal pressed.

   “It’s nothing.”

   “It isn’t _nothing_.” Hannibal stood, then. He could see the expression of familiar disappointment flash across the boy’s face but erase as quickly as it was drawn there. “Don’t mistake me for a blind man. I can see it on the tip of your tongue.”

   There must have been some amusement in it, for the barest of smiles pulled at the very corner of William’s mouth. It was gone again, replaced by a vacancy that pulled at Hannibal’s own sense of happiness and joy.

   “I don’t want to sound like a child.”

   “You are a child-“ Hannibal reasoned, “therefore are entitled to sound like one.”

   “I just turned seventeen.”

   “What is it that you wanted to say?”

   “Ask, actually.”

   There was something scraping the surface of Hannibal’s demeanor. Impatience, presumed, and correctly so. “Alright. What is it that you wanted to ask? Or shall I be withheld from that honor?”

   A look of shyness found its way back to the shape of Will’s lips and the corner of his eyes, wrinkling his brow into what would have been mistaken as hostility to any other who could not see it for what it was. It was quite plain. The sheets rose with the pull of Will’s hands beneath the thin fabric, knuckles peering as the boy pulled at his slim fingers. His teeth grit as he contemplated speaking truths, of finishing his original thought before naturally inhabited instincts told him to do otherwise. Hannibal was a contradiction to all that he had known. There was the constant press, even if unintended, to speak what was there with no filtering and no inner conscience whispering greedy doubts into his ear, burrowing further until it would become a habit to keep anything and everything from Hannibal’s knowledge, even if he could dig it out with a deep enough study. Finally, as if it took all the courage he and everyone else in the world contained, Will stopped the nervous pull of his fingers long enough to free his hands from the shield of the bedsheets. His palms were sprinkled with red lunar-shaped markings, the tell-tale sign of pressing too hard and too long. “Would you hug me, if I asked you to?”

   It seemed too innocent - easily crumbled by Hannibal’s withering touch and his hesitance, his eagerness to fulfill his own desires and that of the boy, and the natural disaster that was burrowed beneath the bed of his well-tailored nails.

   Still, he muttered a reassuring “yes.”

   “Will you hold me?”

    _Hug_. _Hold_. There were large differences, but Hannibal had the sneaking suspicion that even Will, playing oblivious innocence to the sudden switch in terminology, knew that. “Hug would imply a more friendly gesture.”

   “I know.”

   Hannibal breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring with it.

   “Will you hold me?” Will repeated, insistence strong but underlying so deeply that even the likes of Hannibal mistook it as a singular need. “please.”

   There was not any need to utter a plea. There was not when the child's bleak innocence was written across his very body like a banner made just for him, to tell when it was most perceptible, most moldable, unguarded and unfiltered by subconsciousness. Completely, utterly untouched, but so wholly there. If Hannibal were a better man he would not have hurled himself at it like a man desperate for water, lips blue from a lack of desirable, _needed_ , oxygen, parched from a certain lack of it. Hannibal was attracted to many things - beauty, heartful operas, _art_. Art. William was, in possibly every way, from the way he smiled, the way he stared blankly, the way he cried, singularly a piece of art. There was not a mountain of money that could have amounted to the prize he found and he decided, there in the boy's bedroom, in his unfavorable home, that Leon and Isabella could never buy their boy back. It was selfish, he knew, but not a fiber of his being was subjected to guilt. If he could have Will, he would, and he could. He could, and he _did_.

    There were arms snaking around his middle, a face pressed against his stomach, rising and falling in time with each slow inhale. His hands found the boy's neck too easily, where his fingers pressed at the nape, drawing him closer and dragging through the soft, short hairs that grew there. The back of his blazer was pulled tight around his shoulders as hands curled in the fabric below, knuckles pressed into the small of his back to make a particular uncomfortableness settle there, but Hannibal was uncaring and begging for it. There were no tears staining his clothes this time and Hannibal was as equally glad and miserable because of it, for something blossomed while the boy was crying, a trust establishing itself without either male truly realizing it until it was too late. Will could have hated him and should have loathed the idea of a man like Hannibal, but weakness and manipulation were two things that were dangerous when coinciding, and they had. Hannibal was evil for it, more so than for the many lives he had taken throughout his life, for taking a child's sense of familiarity and home to replace it with himself, when he was what _should_  have become a deep hatred. 

   "What do you have to do in Paris?" The utterance was a muffled rumble against Hannibal's stomach, quiet and just barely decipherable. Endearingly sweet, still.

   "Business." A hum. "I doubt you would like to know the details of my business affairs."

   "You're right," Will agreed, "I probably wouldn't like to know."

   "Would you join me for a walk around the gardens?"

   "I look like garbage."

   "Indulge me."

   It was simple to say he looked like a begrudged angel, clothed in sleep and laziness, both well-deserved and patiently uninterrupted. Hannibal wished to be indulged in it day by day if it meant Will was comfortable and, at least, as cheerful as he was in that moment. He need not look like he owned the world but even if he were to say such, it would be unaccepted and fruitfully disregarded. Rather than argue or give a simple word of decline, Will nodded, Hannibal's shirt pulling with it, smile doing just the same.

* * *

 

   "Delphinium are the prettiest."

   "What of lisianthus?" Hannibal asked. "You thought they were the prettiest two minutes ago."

   "Until I saw the delphiniums," Will retaliated, "now I think they are."

   Hannibal hummed. It was low and quiet, swept over by the sound of plants rustling in the breeze of mildly warm wind. It was pleasant out - enough that Hannibal shed of his blazer and Will ventured outside in shorts and a tee, shirt too big and shorts just tight enough on his thighs that a cautious mother would have considered it obscene. "My preference is the zantedeschia."

   The boy's gaze turned to his companion, his strides suddenly slowing to match. Long legs carried him far and obliviousness made him quick. Still, he was committed to catching every petal of every flower, and just as so to ask what kind of flower it was and comment on its fragrance if it was strong enough, as so many were. "I've never heard of it..." Will mumbled, suddenly lost and stopped before a flower that was white, perpetually round and tall, diving like a funnel before it ended at the stem. He bent low to catch the scent it emitted, but it was weak. "What is this one?"

   "Zantedeschia," Hannibal replied. He was watching, contemplating touching, but was content where he stood as he watched his favored guest admire the garden he had spent years building. "The calla lily."

   "It doesn't smell much."

   "No, but it isn't always the smell that attracts."

   "It isn't too pretty either, not like the others, anyway."

   "Subjected to an opinion," he mused. Hannibal wandered near, his step short and almost whimsical like he was a leaf caught in a breeze and unsure of his destination. He ended up at the boy's side, hand splayed across his spine, fingers begging to climb beneath the edge of his shirt and explore the ridges of his spine. "Most of these flowers I planted not for looks or fragrance, but because I found the meaning either ironic or... appealing."

   Will nodded, although he looked unsure. "Alright, then." He straightened, but Hannibal's hand did not leave, nor was it asked to. "What does this one mean?"

   "Purity and innocence." And inch higher, nearly to Will's shoulder. "It has its own uniquely graceful beauty."

   "It's your favorite because you favor innocence." The boy turned, then. "I'm not very innocent."

   Hannibal smiled. It was the kind that was first given when they met in Lup's nightclub, when they were nothing but acquaintances and supposedly friendly, no underlying intentions and no idea of each other's unfavorable personality. It was pride of Will's intelligence, his intellect being superior enough that it could see the meaning beneath of what Hannibal said. A cleverness akin to his own, but enough confidence to recognize it. "There are different kinds of innocence." His hand fell, tucked into the pocket of his slacks. A quarter flipped between two fingers.

   Will's skepticism was evident through the slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It was not quick to form. "I'm innocent in one way, and I should say that is the only way."

   "Oh?"

   Will was careful to hide his embarrassment, but it colored his cheeks no matter how much he fought against it. Even the tips of his ears were reddening. "I never - well, y'know, did... _it_." 

   Hannibal was much more skilled in his abilities to hide particular emotions. Amusement, for one, and it was surely twirling in his mind. "I'm afraid I do not know what _it_ is."

   Will sighed in false exasperation. He might have, that is if Hannibal saw correctly and he certainly did, rolled his eyes. "Sex. I've never had sex."

   Shoulders straightening, Hannibal nodded. "Because you did not desire it or because you could not find someone to engage in intimacy with?"

   The boy grumbled under his breath. "I won't say I didn't want to have sex. There were moments when I thought it would be nice." Will shook his head, lip caught between his teeth. "There were moments when I thought I might be able to enjoy it. There were plenty of girls I liked but none I thought I would... enjoy it with." He looked up to Hannibal, who was as unreadable as ever. He sighed again. "I figured they would find it weird if I wasn't some - some dominant jackhammer."

    _Dominant jackhammer_. Hannibal hid his laugh behind an understanding smile. "Not all desire dominance. It's subjective from person to person, what one exhibits to what one craves."

   William's gaze turned away to the orchids, blue and vibrant and standing tall. "Is that weird?"

   "For you to want dominance, rather than submission? No."

   "I don't know," he mumbled, hand sweeping over his face. "I just never tried it. I didn't want the moment to turn awkward once it was realized that I wasn't going to handcuff them to the goddamn bed."

   Hannibal laughed, and so did Will. "You're young. Give yourself time before you make any sudden steps. It isn't always best to hurdle yourself to the edge of a cliff. You won't know if you're steady on your feet until you are at the very edge."

   The boy's smile began to wither. "Yeah, I guess." The weeping willow's draping leaves rustled loudly in the quiet. "But when I do know, is it safe to hurdle myself then?"

   The calla lilies before them wept with a sudden loss. Thoughts were just as guilty as actions - but was it Will or Hannibal that was displaying a sense of reckless wonder? It was there, as clearly as any other thing, as sure as the hands that planted the flowers surrounding them, made the garden in the beating sun months before, paid every penny in full to make it what it was. This was as sure as that. The want, the hindrance, the impatience and the patience, always clashing with the other until the other caved. Hannibal could wait to find out which of them was weaker than the other, who would cave to the other's desire first and mold it into a perfect match.

   He could wait.

   "What about the asters?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peep that the meaning of the aster flower is patience.  
> Apologies for this update taking forever, along with all the others. I have been very busy the past couple of weeks trying to paint eight huge 8x12 foot paintings for somebody and it's just very time-consuming. I hope to be on a regular schedule within the next week, if not by the tenth of April. I've been dying to write and return to my roleplays!  
> As always, kudos and comments are always appreciated. Shoot me some ideas if you'd like. I always reply.


	7. Just Tonight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante and Beatrice, a request, a rejection, laying in the garden, and conversations by the pool.

   " _From that vision onwards my natural spirit began to be obstructed in its operation, because my spirit was completely dedicated to thoughts of that most graceful one: so that in a little while I reached so frail and debilitated a condition, that many friends were anxious about my appearance: and many full of malice put themselves about to know about me things that I wished above all to hide from others. And I, aware of the ill requests they made about me, replied, by the will of Amor, who directed me in accordance with reason’s counsel, that it was Amor who had brought me to this. I spoke of Amor, because I bore so many signs of him in my face, that they could not be concealed. And, when they asked me: ‘For whom has Amor so distressed you?’ gazing at them I smiled, and said nothing to them_."

   Will thought often of Beatrice, although he never knew her and never would. Still, there was a comfort in thinking that, in obliviousness and a destined role that was not able to be altered, there was someone who admired Beatrice more than she or her spouse could love, even when combined into one bland persona of deepest admiration. What was more intriguing was the feelings Dante must have undergone as he met her the first time when they were children, if there was some kind of revelation that overtook him so wholly that he never forgot her throughout the rest of his life, dedicated his time to write of her, even when he was married to another woman and producing three sons and one daughter with her. Will wondered if the next four meetings created the same euphoria as the first; if it was different as he aged; if innocent admiration turned to something deeper and it was no longer an infatuation but an obsession. Was there anything quite so beautiful, still?

   "Would you like me to continue?"

   Will hummed. He was near sleep, idly waiting at its borders, eyes closed and whimsical thoughts pulling at his consciousness, as well as the sound of Hannibal's voice. His accent was strong and his translations accurate, few stumbles as each word was spoken in English and written in Italian. It was by chance that the two ended up in such a predicament, one reading and one being put to sleep. The simple comment of growing drowsiness had brought them here after a calm dinner that lasted until the sky outside grew dim and then dark. Casual conversation kept the mood light and airy and open for grins and laughs. Such an evening was rigorous in its own right and Will found himself floating atop the clouds, happy as he could ever be, vacant of the hole that was carved there by the man making him smile hazily just then, reaching to run a hand through his curls. "Yes," he murmured, "if you would like to."

   The cover to _Vita Nuova_ slid shut with the slip of elegant fingers, the binding held in his palm. "I doubt you could stay awake." Hannibal retracted his hand and found himself being gripped by hands smaller than his, fingers much more apt to underestimating what strength they could first give. Will spread Hannibal's fingers apart, laid his over them, fingertips calloused beneath his own soft ones, feeling the warmth of his palm. Hannibal watched the boy's face in warped attention. "What are you thinking of?" Hannibal asked. It seemed too sacred to bother, too much of an annoyance to be asked. William's eyes slid to Hannibal slow and steady, a single blink making him look beautifully tired. "Nothing," he replied, distastefully. Something akin to smile spread his lips wide, teeth gleaming between the peak of lips separating, and Hannibal felt his heart unfurl as the boy chose to speak again. "I was thinking of you."

   "What about me?"

   "Nothing in particular," he lied.

   Hannibal did not retract his hand, not even as he felt the puff of hot breath as Will drew it closer for examination, studying every vein that protruded from his wrist and the wrinkles of age that were becoming more prominent with each passing year. "You should be asleep." It was not a command, but not a suggestion. A passing fact. "You were about to be if I hadn't interrupted you."

   "I'm glad you did," Will murmured. Lips pressed against the back of his hand, hot and exquisitely wet. 

   Hannibal suddenly reached for the boy's chin. His grip was a passing caress, hands always unable to harm him. "Go to sleep, Will."

   "Take me to Paris..."

   "Not tonight."

   "Tomorrow, then."

   "Sunday."

   "Tomorrow."

    Hannibal shook his head. His thumb dragged across the smooth skin below William's lip, almost as if in warning of placing another bargain. "Sunday," he repeated, "and only if you go to sleep."

    "I'll go to sleep if you read to me some more," the boy bargained, "and take me out to the garden tomorrow."

    "Italian?" Hannibal asked. _Vita Nuova_  was opening by the brush of his thumb, pages peeling from one another as they returned to where they once were. Will shook his head. "I can't understand Italian," he said, and Hannibal pulled his hand away to rejoin the pages, much to the child's dismay. If it was the wine or the growing liking, Hannibal could not tell but he was near to abandoning all pretenses; what is right or wrong; what would be appropriate; _rejection_. His own lip was caught between his teeth for a matter of moments and it did not go unnoticed, but the gesture was mistaken for thoughtfulness, and the boy asked, "what are you thinking of?" Hannibal wished to tell him the truth but he was a patient man, more patient than that. "I was thinking," Hannibal began, "that the young adult is a strange kind."

   Will rose. He seemed to be itching for something unsaid. His mouth twitched and his eyes flicked to the novel in Hannibal's hand. "What does mažas berniukas mean?"

   Hannibal gave the briefest of chuckles. " _Mažas berniukas,"_ he corrected. "Little boy."

   "So what am I?" The child mused. "Young adult or a little boy? Mature or childish?"

   "Ask me at another time."

   "Why?"

   "Because..." Hannibal breathed, and he saw Will slouch. In his tired haze, he was too beautiful to explain the differences between night and day, how different he acted depending on one condition next to another. But he did anyway. William pulled at the bedsheet with a weak grip as he listened, appearing uninterested but wrapped in focus all the same. He never chose to meet Hannibal's relentless gaze as the man explained, afraid it would give too much away. He was foolish to think any changes would go unnoticed under an eye like Hannibal, for even the slightest of blushes was like a bold word across his temple, a sign hanging in the air for him to read and divulge in secret amusement because Will was too inexperienced in hiding certain emotions, entirely incapable of appearing unflattered when he was, truly, _blushing_. "Minuscule details are never quite so minuscule..." Hannibal finished, "if one knows what they correlate with."

   "I'm just surprised, I suppose, that you paid that much attention." The bedsheet was abandoned. "Am I that readable?"

   "An open book, I'm afraid."

   To him, but to no one else.

   Smiles were exchanged. Suddenly, in the dim light, Will looked tired again, that moment of alertness drained so quickly that his cheeks looked hollow. Hannibal reached to the curl that seemed to always find its way away from behind the boy's ear and pushed it back. His hand lingered a moment too long and he knew when Will's gaze was drawn up to him, almost in questioning. "I should give you a trim," he said, "before those curls become too unruly."

   "You don't like it?"

   Will looked too taken aback for comfort. Hannibal pursed his lips and set _Vita Nuova_ aside with a carelessness that was quite unlike him. "I find it quite endearing, but I would in any way. My opinion is irrelevant."

   "So..." The amusement was clearly evident in the delighted pull of his mouth, the shape of a smile taking form effortlessly. "When you tell me to go to bed, it doesn't matter, because your opinion is, as you said, irrelevant?"

   "Clever boy."

   "Clever enough to evade a bedtime?" He asked. "I'm too old for that."

   Hannibal was up from the bed in one swift pull, the bed vacant of his weight and his skin vacant of the warmth that Will provided, being so close and wrapped in an atmosphere that could have been named arousal if they were brave enough to place a name on it at all. Will reached, palm open, fingers moving in a beckoning. "Perhaps, this once." Hannibal shook his head. He turned on his heel as he fumbled with his sleeves, the cuffs coming undone. He was near the door, reaching for it when something tugged and made the shirt feel tight and constricting. He need not turn around and meet the puppy-like gaze flicking from his back to his neck, to his silvering hair, to the hip Will contemplated grabbing. A moment of silence spread so thickly that Hannibal swallowed and he heard the gulp from behind. Neither were brave at that moment. Neither said what was unspoken. Neither grabbed the other, touched the other. It was a moment in which there was a mutual understanding of the concept of space and how little they needed, but both too afraid for contrasting reasons.

   Finally, Hannibal breathed a sigh. "I have some things I-"

   "Just tonight?" Will asked. His voice was dripping with a sweetness akin to the scent of the flowers in the garden, now closed in their solitary homes as moonlight poured through the clouds, but fragrant and mesmerizing in smell, touch, and looks. Hannibal wished to pluck him like a calla lily, surrounded by its aroma until it withered and dried and died, only to have a new flower just as beautiful in its place. Will touched his shoulder, fingertips soft and dangerously timid. "I have bad dreams and I think-"

   "That I could give you... good ones," Hannibal finished, and the nod the boy gave confirmed as much. Lecter turned to face Will with an expression barely readable, but neither harsh nor sympathetic. "Is it your desire to lead me as astray as possible?"

   Shame - not so easily wiped away with a nervous smile. "Oh, its... forget I-"

   "No, please." Hannibal dismissed the forgotten sentence with a pull of his lips, confident and sure. Will's nervousness seemed to slip away with slight ease, although it still clung to his lanky frame like an unwanted pest. The boy shook his head once, ran the back of his hand across his lips, and dropped the arm back to his side. Hannibal stepped forward with an assertiveness, not unlike himself, and quenched the itch to touch. HIs fingertips brushed the collar of William's shirt, passing skin and feeling the heat of it. A casual touch with different intentions, if only Will chose to recognize it. "I didn't mean to give that impression."

   His laryngeal moved with a quick swallow. There was a moment's interval in which Will said nothing, presumably deciphering. Then, with a beat, he smiled the smallest of the most nervous smiles and turned towards the empty bed. "Do what you have to. I don't mean to keep you. It was just an idea."

   "I don't object to the idea."  Will's shoulders rolled in a shrug. "Will," Hannibal called, "you shouldn't second guess yourself. I never want you to feel like something is too preposterous or unusual for you to ask or want." Hannibal considered the lack of movement to be a sense of doubt, and so he pursued. "I want this household to be open to you. It is if you would allow it. For your sake and for mine - do... Allow it."

   "May I go to bed now?"

   There was a sense of failure between them both. Will and his timidness and his regrets, and Hannibal's persuasion. One was more eager to engage in the same disagreement again, to unfurl a different series of responses that would end in a different result. One more compliant, one more unsure. A game. A cruel one.

   "Yes."

   "Goodnight."

   "Sweet dreams, Will."

* * *

   It was easier to look at someone when you could easily get over a past affair. Move on, eventually, and genuinely act like nothing had ever occurred and the atmosphere was as it always was - cool, composed, and enjoyable. Will could not so easily store such occasions into the back of his mind to be forgotten over the ages. It was a pinpoint in the very front of his mind, a banner that reminded him of this or that time he said something stupid or did something odd. He recalled far too many times for comfort. The occasion in which Hannibal told him no and then tried to comfort him was a forerunner. He thought of the moments filled with unbearable tension with an overwhelming sense of regret for creating it and he laid awake wondering what Hannibal thought of him now or if he thought of him at all. Will hoped his views wouldn't ever change, that Hannibal would forever view him as some innocent child who never asked for more than he needed and never complained of what he got, or just how little he received.

   Then he pondered on the concept of asking Hannibal at all. Then of walking through the garden, talking of flowers and beauty and innocence and sex. Hannibal denied ever bringing Will into his home for anything intimate and yet it still felt as if there was some underlying intention beneath every peering word that was already masked with so much amusement like every step he took was the first of an infant. He had kissed Hannibal's hand, would that not make him guilty of implying some degree of intimacy, too?

   Hannibal never kissed his hand.

   Hannibal never did anything to imply that he was anything more than a blossoming father-figure. Hannibal was not guilty of anything at all, but for caring.

   Will dropped himself to the grass. He had knowingly ventured to the garden and had ceased before the bundles of calla lilies near the end of the walkway that led to the pool, or what he assumed was a pool. Will could smell chlorine past the gate, just a faint trace of it. Enough to have made him peer above the edge of the gate earlier, but not tempting enough to make him ask to use the pool, therefore speaking to Hannibal. He did not feel confident enough to do that. A word may be able to fumble past his lips but it would be covered with the remnants of an awful blush - something that would amuse Hannibal, something William would want to see any other time, but not then. Will feared he would crumble if Hannibal laughed at him for last night. Sons did not ask to sleep with their father, blood or step or figure or whatever was in-between.

   If he was to have no one, would it really be so terribly wrong to find himself imagining Hannibal in any way other than a father? His fingertips dragged across his belly, slow and unsteady. In the process of laying down in the comfort of the grass his shirt had ridden up, leaving the strip of skin bare. Will was growing both in height and masculinity. There was a sparse trail of hair dipping beneath the waistband of shorts and he followed it now, stopping near the belt loop, thumb hooking into it. Would anyone know? Was anybody even inside the house? He hadn't checked in the journey to the outside. There was Hannibal's men, a sudden drop in the number of them since the previous night. He heard cars that morning, too. Few people were on the property. His hand was dipping further. Hannibal was on his mind. Hannibal wouldn't know if nobody told him.

   "Was the sun calling to you again?"

   The zipper scratched the back of his hand as it tore away. Will didn't look away from the bundle of trees above and the blue sky peering between the green leaves. His chest rose heavily in a dose of fear that he had been seen, that he had somehow been heard, by Hannibal. He appeared around the corner of the stone walkway to the field of grass alongside the garden of flowers, a red handkerchief rubbing between his hands. Will nodded in a feeble attempt to appear casual. He was sweating, he noticed. Hannibal would mistake it for the beating sun.

   "You should have asked Matis to unlock the gate, then you could have used the pool. It's more than open to you."

   Will nodded. "I'm alright."

   "Come on," Hannibal beckoned. "Take a jump in it."

   The boy propped himself up on his elbows. Hannibal was wearing navy - navy slacks, navy blazer, white blouse, red tie, and a patterned red handkerchief to match. The red resembled the color of blood blossoming on his knuckles and the tender skin of the back of his hand. The scratches were red and swollen, like an injury sustained from an unfriendly feline; or, he thought, almost getting caught with his hands in his pants. Was it _almost_? Hannibal was the type to play it casually. Was this casual? Offering to let him use the pool and smiling? "I suppose..." Will muttered, entirely unsure in tone and the slow rise from the grass. Hannibal outstretched his hand and Will felt forced to take it, so hand in hand he was guided to the gate that guarded the entrance to the outdoor pool. The gate looked like something that might have guarded the Queen of England's Westminister Abbey. "Will - are you swimming, too?"

   "I may if the sun decides to compel me."

   The gate was not locked. Hannibal pushed it open with a simple twist and push. Neither entered through. Will was caught by the hand that still gripped him. Hannibal tsked and Will thought, at that moment, that this would be his end. When Lecter asked how the dreaded scratch happened Will was caught off guard, despite expecting the question to arise. "I scratched it against the quinces," he lied, "while I was walking."

   The handkerchief stung as it wiped across the minor injury. Hannibal was gentle, it was just his own embarrassment. "Would you like them removed?"

   "No..." The boy quickly said. "They're pretty. I was being stupid, is all." Will walked ahead. There was no room for disappointment in his new surroundings. The pool was not enormous, but larger than the average pool. The water was pristinely clear, the bottom to look like stone. Chairs and tables outlined a side of the pool and there was a small building in the right corner, presumably for changing. It was simple in its entirety but elegant and modern.There was no bar, unlike what Will would have expected. He could not quite imagine Hannibal lounging by a pool with a glass of wine, anyway. "I'd like the quinces to stay. Plant more, if you want. I'll be more careful."

   "I was thinking calla lilies," Hannibal replied. "There's a sparse spot near the beginning of the garden. I was contemplating what to plant, but more lilies seem the proper choice."

   "Why?" Will asked.

   "A reminder of what is gained, or what is lost."

   Innocence lost or gained. Will suddenly felt repulsed by his own self, and so he chose not to say anything. He opted for pulling his shirt above his head, pulling on the zipper of his shorts a second time without injury, and slipping into the pool without a word to be spoken or an acknowledgment given. Hannibal knew and Will knew he _knew_. Hannibal knew it was not the quinces and their avoidable thorns, for how would he touch them if not reaching for their pointed ends? Why would he lay near the flower that is a symbolism for purity and innocence if not to take his own innocence there in the grass? Hannibal was too intellectual to be fooled. Will knew that even before he spoke the lie, but he wanted to remain that image to him and lie rather than admitting that he was thinking of him.

   "Is the sun compelling you, Hannibal?"

   A smile. If he knew, and he did, it would not change a thing. There was a comfort in that, but also a danger in leaving it as an unspoken truth. For now, for today, it could be an unspoken truth.

   "Yes... Yes, I think it is."


	8. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plane rides to Paris, a visitor, and admittances that are not understood.

   The garden became a favorite attraction. The boy, knavish and reckless in his own solitude, sought the comfort of the sun and the wind-swept trees, of the insects that found favor in the fragrance and color of the garden's flowers, too. Even the day after his gauche confrontation with Hannibal, as it rained and poured relentlessly, Will was found lying in the grass. His clothes were uncomfortably plastered to his skin and his curls were stuck to his face and caught in the trap of his lashes. If Hannibal was home he might not have been pleased, but no soul found him as he ventured back inside the house, bare feet almost slipping on the tile floor, grass trudging in behind him as it was caught on the sole of his feet. Hannibal might not have been pleased when he returned late that night, having not spoken a word to the boy or confirmed his suspicions of who caused the untidiness, or saw the mess at all. Will bathed, feasted on a dinner alone, and returned to his bedroom to read the chapters of _Vita Nuova_  that Hannibal would seemingly never have the time to read aloud.

   Wednesday was just alike and so was Thursday, then Friday, then Saturday. It poured until Friday afternoon.

   A middle-aged woman of good stature visited the Lecter estate Saturday evening. Will was waiting in great anticipation, never quite comfortable as he watched the time tick by until six the next morning when she knocked on the open bedroom door and introduced herself. She called herself Evangeline Evergreen, "Doctor Evergreen to Doctor Lecter," but Evangeline to him. She explained herself to be Hannibal's personal doctor, and his in turn. An appointment was scheduled for the first possible time slot to have Will for a routine checkup before their flight out of the country. She inquired about Paris, gave stories of her visits there when Hannibal contracted malaria late last summer. Will told her of the few times he traveled during his life, Virginia to wherever he was now being the third, and it was then that he discovered he was currently residing in Westchase, Florida. The conversation between them remained light and pleasant and Will began to understand why Hannibal chose her as a personal nurse. Still, the oddest occurrence of all was the lack of questions about his past life. How he ended up here, who his parents were and if they treated him well. He assumed such details would be important.

   An hour later and she declared him as healthy and fit to cross the globe, and wished him safe travels before her departure.

   Will was itching to ask of Hannibal's whereabouts. He continued on to lunch alone, through the afternoon, bored by the time dinner came calling to his stomach. Hannibal prepared each meal in advance and all were delightfully tasteful, but the boy still wished to have someone sitting across from him at the dinner table. In the silence, he began to wonder of Bedelia du Maurier, for her company seemed more enjoyable than an empty seat.

   Dinner was lonesome and the evening carried on to be just so, so terribly boring that even the garden didn't seem as pleasant as before.

   It was not until Sunday morning that Will was able to see Hannibal again.

   He was given strict instructions that there was no need to pack. There was a wardrobe waiting in France and he did not have any personal belongings to carry along. The only item that boarded the plane with him was _Vita Nuova_.

   Will would have thought he would be overjoyed to see Hannibal for the first time since Tuesday evening. The older man was seated in the plane, a pad of parchment in his lap and a pen tirelessly writing in a steady flow of black ink. If the boy expected a delighted greeting or an apology for disappearing nearly a whole week, he did not receive one.

   In fact, they did not speak until the private jet had taken off into the air. They may have never spoken if Hannibal did not decide he thirsted for a glass of wine now that the plane did not rattle with increasing speed. Hannibal was irritatingly casual in his idea of a greeting. "Ms. Evergreen gave a good report yesterday evening. I was quite happy to hear that you are in good health."

    _No harm from neglect_. It would sound too pitiful to say such a thing. Instead, he opted for a simple comment on Evangeline's pleasant personality.

   Hannibal looked at him. He was twirling the blood-colored wine in his glass, holding it with a grip that seemed too frail for the possibility of unexpected turbulence. "She is kind, yes." He sat, crossed a leg over the other, and smiled gingerly. "Would you like to tell me what is bothering you, darling?"

    _Darling_. That seemed unfair. "Nothing," he lied. "It's early and I'm tired."

   "You hadn't spoken a word since you arrived. I should say you're not excited to embark to Paris."

   "I am..." Will muttered, honestly. "I've been looking forward to it."

   Hannibal smiled. The boy had the most southern drawl in the early morning hours, making every _g_ disappear from the end of spoken words. "If not homesickness, what?"

   Did it matter if he knew? No, Will convinced himself. Perhaps, just slightly, there was a chance he could evoke some guilt. "Where were you?"

   "I had some business matters to attend to. I did return each night, and each night you were already fast asleep. I thought it would be tactless to wake you."

   A beat, then: "Oh."

  "Oh?" Hannibal sounded amused. "Was I missed?"

   Simply for the sake of still having some dignity, Will shook his head. He shifted, adjusted the buckle, and waited until he was comfortable to speak. "No, I just... spent my time in the garden all week. It rained so I couldn't swim. I didn't know what else to do so I read and napped and went back to the garden. Then, when dinner rolled around, I ate. Alone. Went back to the garden, came inside when it rained too hard and went to bed." He sighed. "Repeat that four times and that was my week."

   "If you were so bored, why didn't you ask one of my men to get something for you to do?"

   "I didn't think of that-" he snapped, "I'm usually busy trying to imagine they are never there."

   One of Hannibal's brows rose. The boy's tone was not snippy, but matter-of-fact. His posture was slouched, fingers intertwined and palms pressed against the knee he held, heel pushed into the edge of the seat. He looked... out of his element. Tired, yes, but as if he dreaded where he was then - sitting in an exquisite plane, in new clothes, yesterday's grass stains still scuffing his elbows. Hannibal beckoned. Will scoffed. "Please," he said. Will complied, though he was not quick in unbuckling and shuffling to the seat beside him. When the boy sat Hannibal offered his hand, palm up, in an offering. It was taken and the air felt more content and loose as Hannibal's thumb skidded over Tuesday's scratch. "There's a garden at my villa. A vineyard and an orchard, too. A pond for swimming, but another pool as well."

   "It sounds nice..." he returned, "Nicer than Florida?"

   "Much. Have you ever read _The Da Vinci Code_?"

   "Yeah, a couple years ago."

   "Chateau de Villette features in it. It was rentable at the time, but I purchased it several years back. Much of my business is in Europe, so acquiring a home there was only logical. Westchase was... temporary."

   Will turned. His hand retracted, Hannibal's grip lost as he stared. It took him a matter of moments, perhaps a full minute, as he considered. "Temporary... Then?"

   A smile. Delighted, but sympathetic. Will shrank back against the seat. "I would have told you sooner, but I thought you would reject and become angered. Paris is not terrible, Will. It may not be as clean and tidy as London but it offers many sights that you would enjoy. You can roam there. We needn't keep you cooped up. It was necessary for Florida - I have enemies that are personal and there is the slight chance that they know who _you_ are-"

   "So you're doing me a favor, then, rather than just letting me go?"

   That small moment the air did not feel suffocating was swept away entirely. Hannibal no longer seemed so open. "A debt is a debt."

   "A child is not an item you can buy in a store to take home and break, just to buy another."

   "Have I broken you, Will?" He asked. "Is taking care of you truly so awful?"

   The boy couldn't disagree. What had Hannibal done, but take him away from a toxic home and given him everything? A sense of freedom, even if he was not safely allowed to wander out of the boundaries of the property? Will /was/ happy. He was safe, in some regard. Now he was moving to Paris purely because Hannibal wanted him to feel free and, in turn, happy. It was considerate, not an intention to anger and draw him away. It was, in a way, Hannibal's way of saying he was sorry.

   "Will you take me to the Louvre?"

   "Of course," Hannibal urged. "Louvre, Eiffel Tower, all of the highlights. Someday I'll take you to Italy to visit Dante's birthplace. Then, if you still feel adventurous, we can tour all over Europe."

   Will laughed, and Hannibal grinned that small but pleased smile. "I feel like this is just your chance to showcase everything that you know."

   "I never cease showcasing."

   "What about operas?" Will asked after a beat of silence. "I sense you're into that sort of thing and Palais Garnier is in Paris, one of the best opera theatres in the world."

   "Is that something you would enjoy?"

   "We can see."

   "Tomorrow night, I'll take you to the opera."

   Perhaps, _just maybe_ , Paris wouldn't be so bad - living with Hannibal wouldn't be so bad. He knew nothing of the language of the French, albeit for the common greetings and expressions of thanks. Hannibal, no doubt, had thought the entire ordeal through. Will expected there to be a private tutor at his disposal, if not a private instructor for all of his schooling. Junior year took a sudden halt, but a month into the summer and he could feasibly catch up. Then, if enough of a basis of trust was established and he was diligent with studying the language, there was a slim chance Hannibal would allow Will to attend a secure district school. The idea of friends seemed absurd now. There was Beverly Katz, the few acquaintances he spoke with but was never truly friends with. Beverly was the only person he thought he would miss but now, in the gleam of a new life, he found it easier to push the thought of the girl away. Hannibal’s brisk call aided in a quick dismissal.

   “Take this, would you?”

   The glass of wine, only two or three sips worth emptied, was forced into the boy’s hold as Hannibal stood and wandered to the pilot’s cabin. The liquid swirled in a light circular twist of the wrist and Will dipped his head to smell it, just as he had seen Hannibal do. It smelled morbid. Oxidized, like a stewed fruit or a burned marshmallow at a campfire. It smelled as terrible as beer, to which Will was quite familiar with. The smell absorbed into his mother and father’s pores and mixed with the wrenching stench of several cigarettes smoked in one compacted space, the smoke unable to escape but into them like a sponge.

   The wine burned his throat. It felt like biting into a lemon and the sickly sour juice poured onto a split lip. A second sip was no better.

   “Don’t enjoy it?”

   Will held the glass out in repulsion. “It’s terrible. I don’t see how you could drink it.”

   “If you had asked, I would have given you something sweeter.” Hannibal took the glass, now more empty than before, and retreated to the wine cooler on the far side of the plane. A second glass was filled with something much lighter in color, a creamy white that resembled the color of champagne. The first glass was refilled and Hannibal returned, seating himself as he was before, a glass in an offering.

   “What is it?” Will asked as he accepted.

   “Château d'Yquem Sauternes Sémillon-Sauvignon Blanc Blend, 1942.”

   “Wine?”

   Hannibal smiled bemusedly. “Yes, wine.”

   He was not wrong. Château d’Yquem was far sweeter than the red wine Hannibal sipped on now. It tasted like a caramel candy, a great contrast with the red wine that tasted like rubbing alcohol poured down his throat. “How much does it run for? The bottle looked expensive.” The cost, as Hannibal explained, seemed too outrageous for him, Will, to even touch. Two and a half thousand at its cheapest. “I can’t imagine spending this much on… _anything_.”

   There was something in the look that Hannibal gave, entirely indecipherable but completely guessable. Incredulous, amused - _always amused_ … Fond, even. “That jacket you are wearing is nearly three thousand. Versace is never inexpensive.”

   “Hannibal!”

   “Need I mention that Gucci shirt you soaked on Thursday?”

   “You’re absolutely insane,” the boy concluded. “Buy me the twelve dollar shirts at Walmart for fuck’s sake.”

   Hannibal tsked. “Spare me the complaints. I could never.”

   “Versace, Gucci… I don’t want to know the cost of anything else. Spare _me_ by never telling me.”

   There was a moment of silence, and then: “It would be foolish to tell you the cost of the gift of jewelry I have waiting in your bedroom, then?”

   One, two, three, four seconds of uninterrupted silence. Will cursed himself even as he asked: “How much?”

   “Eight thousand.”

   Hannibal received a slap on the arm, and the only reaction that he gave was an appreciative laugh. It was decided, then, that Hannibal had lost his mind. “Eight thousand?” He repeated. “Why would anybody pay that much for a piece of jewelry? Three thousand for a jacket, even?”

   “Will you not like it?” Hannibal inquired. Will couldn’t tell if he was offended or really that casual about anything and everything.

   “I will,” Will replied, “but I think you’re being outrageous.”

   “Worry about anything else. I acquire the salary I make, therefore I am allowed to spend it how I would like.”

   “On yourself.”

   “On whoever I please.”

   Seeing they were never going to come to an agreement, the argument was dropped and cast aside for some other time. Will sipped, as did Hannibal, and allowed a span of silence to spread thinly between them. They took each other’s hand out of chance, Hannibal’s fingers brushing against his as he reached to adjust the collar of the cost-problematic jacket, then returning to the arm of his chair only for another hand to wrap around his. Hannibal’s thumb found the scabbed scratch from Tuesday, the pad of it running across from end to end. Will had emptied his own glass in due time and silently declined the offer of a refill minutes later. With a glance, with a slack in grip, Hannibal knew just enough wine had put him to sleep.

* * *

 

   A flight from Tampa, Florida to Paris was roughly eleven hours. Eight of that, Will slept and Hannibal sat awake. As they traveled the sun grew increasingly darker until it disappeared altogether halfway through the Atlantic Ocean. The steady darkness made sleeping effortless, not even the cabin lights able to disturb a comfortable rest. The only trouble the boy had during those eight hours was soreness in his neck, but even that was solved when Will, unconscious at one in the afternoon after a filling lunch and more Château d’Yquem, slowly fell further and further in Hannibal’s direction until, finally, Hannibal coaxed Will to lay on the conjoined seats. From then on, the only disturbance was short and harmless fits of turbulence.

   By five, eleven in Paris’ time zone, they had reached their landing ground. Will was awake throughout the brief flight through France, throwing questions with each sight to receive complicated answers from his company, throwing another before that one could even be completed in answering. He was a boy filled with many curiosities and overwhelmed by the idea of being in a new and completely undiscovered place, and so to have enough patience to tolerate the excitement was easy enough to find. Hannibal found it most endearing to see Will peering out the window, a sweet smile pulling at his lips, asking question after question until he was tired again in the car and could hardly keep his eyelids open. Hannibal made a promise to be home the next morning to indulge him in all possible questions, and with a nod, Will found sleep with his head against the window.

   Hannibal wasn’t sure the boy remembered walking through the new estate, but he was more than energetic when Paris’ morning hours rose with the sun. Hannibal was less enthusiastic but even then, he gave a smile when Will came wandering into the dining hall at seven with a new question to ask.

   The door hadn’t even fallen shut behind him when he inquired, eyes lingering on it, “what’s that painting called? I think I’ve seen it before.”

   “ _Assumption of the Virgin_ ,” Hannibal replied. “Painted by Titian in the early fifteen hundreds.”

   “What about–”

   “Good morning.”

   A visitor. Will furrowed his brow. He needn’t draw back any memories to recall the face or the tinge of an accent to recognize the voice.

   “What are you doing here?”

   “Just dropping by, my dear…” Brown mumbled in response. “Is that a problem?”

   “Yes,” Will answered simply, quickly, and fluently. There was no mistaking his bluntness for amusement.

   Hannibal gestured to the empty seat beside him, where there was a covered bowl awaiting him with a bountiful, fresh fruit breakfast. “Eat some breakfast, darling.” Matthew seemed bemused, particularly when the boy did not move from the entryway. “Take it to the garden, if you’d like. I should only be a moment.”

   “Not until he leaves.” Will’s gaze flicked to Hannibal. It was genuine in its ability to convey the simple message that he wanted Matthew Brown to be gone. “You said-”

   “Listen to Daddy and run along.”

   Hannibal stood and smoothed the lapel of his blazer. “Will.” The anger was externally visible, but it did not compare to the internal fester of hatred. Hannibal dissuaded it with a hand on the boy’s cheek that brought a boiling gaze to him rather than its target, where it looked relentless in the next fleeting moment. “I know what I said, and I will. Give me two minutes to say my farewells and wait in your bedroom, then I can fulfill my promise.”

   Through the corner of his eye Will could see Matthew’s suggestive stance but out of respect to Hannibal, he forced himself to ignore in the instinct to make that stupid smug smile wipe away and walked out. The door came to a rougher close than required. His bedroom door did, too.

   “Fucking him, are you?”

   “No,” Hannibal replied. “Can you not hold your tongue?”

   “Can you not control your boy’s mouth? I let him live. That should be enough to have his respect.”

   Hannibal scooped up the bowl of fresh fruits. He was not kind, but he was not short and did not lose his temper. “You let him live because I made you. You must earn his respect, which means you must be kind and patient; that, in turn, means you mustn’t imply explicit assumptions.”

   “Oh, _please_ …” Matthew rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “Did you completely miss that burning blush? The kid looked like he would’ve creamed his pants if I called you his Daddy again.”

   He was becoming short, then. “There is nothing there but a paternal understanding. If you make it anything more, I should consider it your own fantasy. Now, please, I have a boy to consult because your presence is truly that unwanted.”

   “I’m beginning to wonder if he’s rubbed off on you.”

   If it was a different time, Hannibal might have indulged Matthew in a laugh. He only ushered the pest out through the door with more haste. It was not the pinned idea that he had the opportunity to indulge himself in a morning with his most treasured resident, but to rid himself of the slew of inappropriate suggestions that came from none other than the one he expected them from, but to say it in front of Will? He wouldn’t deny that it was entertaining to watch the scene unfold, but he was not fond of the child’s wrath.

   “Go back to America, Matthew. France has nothing to offer you, certainly not here.”

   Matthew stepped through the open exit. It was perfect Paris weather with not a raindrop to be felt. “I plan to,” he replied. “The club can’t run itself.”

   That was their departing goodbyes. No smiles exchanged, no discussion of their next meeting. Such friendly exchanges were far behind them and Hannibal could not honestly say that he reminisced or even missed the times he and Brown were what one could consider as anything more than business partners. Even then, if they were not at such a critical time in their partnership, Hannibal would have cut ties long ago and taken the business solo. The idea seemed more and more pleasing with each passing visit.

   Will was laying on his unmade bed when Hannibal arrived with the promised bowl of fruit. The ceramic bowl clicked against the bedside table. Hannibal pulled on the covers, nonchalantly ushering the boy off of the bed, and subsequently made the bed as Will padded to the bowl of fruit he had been craving since first seeing it.

   “Are you mad at me?” Will asked after a moment too long of silence.

   Hannibal answered honestly. “No. I think you did well. He gave you every reason to act and you did not. Although, I don’t believe I would have stopped you if you did.”

   “Why do you even do business with that… baboon. He’s arrogant and cocky. There isn’t a shred of his fucking being that’s professional.”

   Hannibal turned as the cuss fell subconsciously from Will’s lips. “Is it his past with you and your parents that upset you, or how he referred to you and me?”

   The fork paused before his lips. Then, a hesitating second later, the strawberry was between his teeth. Hannibal’s attention did not waver from Will, but it turned to the bed. “Both,” Will muttered. “And the plain fact that I don’t like him. I wouldn’t even if nothing happened.”

   “He was much more agreeable and… tolerable in his youth.”

   “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

   Hannibal shook his head in disagreement. “Not necessarily. I find you quite agreeable, but I do believe that quality will only grow and mature with you.”

   Will sat on the made bed. It was a size bigger than the one he occupied in Westchase, a king rather than a queen. “I don’t understand it. He and Bedelia assumed you were… _that_. Is that really what this looks like to everybody else?”

   “I’m older, giving you space in my home, clothes that the wealthy wear. We look nothing alike, hence never being mistaken for father and son. I should presume everybody assumes the same thing, but that is not a reason for you to let it bother you.”

   “I don’t want to look like a snobby boy who feeds off of rich old men,” Will admitted with a melon in his mouth. “That isn’t what this is.”

    “That is the life everyone dreams of, more or less.” Hannibal plucked a slice of watermelon from the bowl and he was not stopped. “Being paid to look pretty and fuck better.”

   It could have been mistaken as a grimace but, in truth, hearing the word _fuck_ fall from Hannibal’s tongue in the most casual manner possible made the grape he swallowed harder to digest. Will swallowed again, moved the bowl to his lap, and took the stolen watermelon back with his teeth. Pink juice trickled down his chin, spotted his jeans, pooled on his tongue. Hannibal smiled that endeared smile, like nothing was quite as beautiful.

    “Tu es si inconsient. Si j’étais un homme différent, je te baiserais de ton innoncence. Y a-t-il quelque chose de plus cruel?”“”

   Will hummed. “What does that mean?”

   “Finish your fruit, and we can see Paris.”

   Lying was never quite so difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Tu es si inconsient. Si j’étais un homme différent, je te baiserais de ton innoncence. Y a-t-il quelque chose de plus cruel?”  
> \- You are so oblivious. If I was a different man, I would fuck your innocence away. Is there anything crueler?  
> (Thanks to JustAnotherSillyFangirl for helping out with the translation*) Apologies if my French is incorrect, as I can guarantee it is. I had to use google translate. I only just started taking French this year and I won’t lie and say I always paid attention in class. But, now you have an idea of what I was /trying/ to portray.  
> The estate I referenced is easily found if you google the name. Here's a link for the Versace jacket, in case you need help imagining: https://www.versace.com/us/en-us/men/clothing/jackets-coats/embellished-satin-bomber-a008/A79485-A225555_A008.html  
> Intimacy soon? I’ve been hinting around at it quite a bit. Mostly just eager to write a good, juicy sex scene for these two lovebirds. I haven’t written one in months.  
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated. And a friendly reminder that you can find me on ourdeceit on IG.


	9. Tu Es Beau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shifting through the first few weeks in Condécourt, France. More time by the pool, French lessons, burning blushes, and a question asked.

* * *

   "I don't understand."

   "Excusez-moi, monsieur." Hannibal repeated the phrase a third time. French was a tedious subject to teach Will. The child's inability to stay still for more than ten minutes at a time was no aid in making the transition from English to French an easy one. One moment he was there, sitting beside Hannibal who was sipping on a purple beverage in shorts and an open button down, and the next he was back inside the pool, lounging in the ripples he made with each bubble blown into the water. Hannibal had yet to scold him; forcing Will to bare the heat was not a kind deed. Even so, with each dip into the pool rewarded them with a handful of minutes of silence and Hannibal was able to read more of the twelfth chapter of _Games People Play: The Basic Handbook of Transactional Analysis_. His patience hadn't worn thin no matter how many times the boy departed to cool himself off. His lips pulled thin when a droplet or two of water splashed onto the page he had just finished reading, but all was forgiven when Will muttered a simple and entirely meaningful "pardon." Hannibal was less likely to lose his patience then - he had, at least, learned _one_ thing from their daily lessons.

   "We reviewed one of those terms during our second lesson."

   " _Oh_!" Will exclaimed. "It's... Oh, that was simple."

   Hannibal lifted a brow. "Is it? You haven't given me an answer."

   Will held himself up on the edge of the pool with his palms. He had that devious smile playing at the corner of his lips like he knew something that no one else did. " _Excuse me, sir_ , but you didn't give me enough time to give an answer."

   Hannibal flipped a page. He was silent for a moment but then, with something muttered under his breath in French, he set the book down on the table beside him. Sweat glistened on his golden skin, made his legs look all the more divine in the shining sunlight. The hair on his chest looked rough and grayer than that atop his head, a clear line disappearing beneath the waistband of his navy shorts. Will's clothes were originally in a pile, now folded and placed in Hannibal's lap like some kind of armrest as he read. Will hoped they smelled like the cologne Hannibal bought with each sweeping breeze, which was few and far between; it was, otherwise, a sunny and cloudless morning. Peaceful, uninterrupted, full of smiles and hidden blushes from the younger of the two, never hidden well and always known. Will was quite interested in the lessons, no matter what his bored expression and constant restlessness might have portrayed.

   "Once we're done with French..." Will called, voice growing louder as he drifted further away to the opposite end of the pool, "you can teach me... Where is it you're from again?"

   "Mars, from what you told Matis. Quite a rumor you've been spreading around." Hannibal mused. "False, I should say."

   Will fought the urge to roll his eyes. Hannibal never liked it when he rolled his eyes. "Really. I've forgotten."

   "Lithuania."

   "You can teach me Lithuanian, then."

   Hannibal dipped his head back. Despite the darkened shades of his sunglasses, it was still blinding in the direct light. "You would know what my men and I are saying, then. I assume that is your goal."

   "Mhm..." Will hummed. "I have the suspicious feeling that they enjoying insulting me, particularly because I haven't the faintest idea what I'm being insulted for."

   "Ateik čia." Hannibal beckoned with a pat on his knee. His shorts had ridden up just above that, revealing the beginnings of a tan line. When there was no splash of water, no audible ripple breaking the surface, Hannibal reiterated. "Come here."

   Will broke through the water, then. He prowled across the length of the pool with his chin in the water, mimicking a cat stalking prey. Hannibal hadn't picked up his head, hadn't looked in any direction other than the sky, and even then he mustn't be looking at the sky for it was too blinding to dare. Will lifted himself from the edge of the pool with a great pull that took all of his weight with it. He stood at the edge and dripped, pulling at his boxers that clung to his skin in a most obscene way. He could have walked across the edge of the pool to the two rooms that were made just for changing into swimsuits, and, yet, his laziness had become prominent as well as the desire to rid himself of the unpleasant feeling of being drenched in hot and sticky sweat. He thought Hannibal might have joined, but after picking up and folding his clothes, Hannibal took a seat near the edge of the pool and stayed there since. It was in the shade of the neighboring cherry blossom tree inhabiting the garden but as the sun moved, so did the shade. Buttons came undone, shoes were slipped off and set aside, but Hannibal had yet to join his companion in the comfort of the pool.

   Will stood in front of him, kicked his leg when Hannibal lingered as he was just a moment too long. Then, after a blistering second, Hannibal stood and reached to the wet chestnut locks that curled against Will's temple. A leaf from the cherry blossom tree had fallen and plastered there, and Hannibal flicked it beside his book.

   "Tu es beau."

   "Je suis Will."

   Hannibal laughed. It wrinkled the corner of his eyes, showed his teeth that were not at all perfect but oddly adorable. Will grinned like he was proud of himself when, really, he hadn't a clue what he had done wrong or, by some slim chance, gotten right. "You and I have much to work on," he replied, "and not enough time."

   Will shook his head, spraying water with the action, and pulled on Hannibal's unbuttoned button-down. It was a horrid shade of something between pink and orange. "Can it wait?" he asked. "You've read and taught me all day. Do you ever take a break, between me and work?"

   "Occasionally," Hannibal admitted, "although I prefer the former."

   The boy offered an audible sigh and gave a half-hearted push to Hannibal's chest. _That_ was a mistake. He was spun around in the next moment and then sitting in the chair Hannibal had previously occupied, a hand on his chest and then gone. "Reste." _Stay_. Will could pick out French words here and there, all scattered in meaning. He lived in Lousiana for part of his life and a great deal of the population still spoke in broken French. When he began to push on the arms of the chair to rise, Hannibal repeated the command and swiped his glass from the table. It was not empty, but the ice had melted and ruined the flavor of its thick texture. He was off, leaving Will behind as directed by his command, and entirely uncaring of the boy's shouts. He asked to leave, to know why, and resorted to just his name. He was given nothing but a smile, exact to the one that pictured knowing something that others did not.

   "How do you say 'fuck you' in French!" Will yelled, spine curving as he peered around the edge of the fence. "I believe what you are looking for is 'Va te faire foutre,' but I would never encourage such vulgar language," Hannibal shouted back, and whatever Will may have replied was lost when the door slid to a close behind him.

 

* * *

 

   Dinner was never a hectic affair, nor rushed, or unpleasant. Hannibal would cook, Will would watch, they would converse in attempted French, and eat at the table with just the two of them and a third place set for the unlikely occurrence that an unexpected guest arrived just in time to join them. Since the equally unexpected move from Westchase, Florida, to Condécourt, France, they had fallen back into a steady rhythm. Things were no longer boring as Hannibal was home more often and therefore available to entertain Will with tours through France's national prizes and hidden beauties, lessons in the language, evenings in the library, afternoons in the garden, mornings near the pool, and, quite frankly, whatever Will asked to do. Despite the constant encouragement that he need not be afraid to ask there was still that sensible hesitance. Will was careful and tedious. He refused to complain, bargain, or ask for anything more than he already had. The gifts that Hannibal frequently and unintentionally surprised him with were undoubtedly outrageously expensive, but Will learned to accept it rather than beg for it to be returned after the first revealing of the cost of his wardrobe on the plane ride to Paris. He never complained, never wanted for anything more.

   Never, until he began to miss certain things.

   They had finished dinner when it began to particularly prick at his skin, more so in that, it was difficult to ignore. Hannibal could see it crawling like a pest, wrapping around Will's head, making him just the slightest bit fewer smiles and more drawn-out stares at the cutlery, less conversation, and more tedious silence. He was considerate enough to not ask and give the boy the time he needed to express what was so very clearly on his mind. They spoke during dinner, joked, smiled, laughed, and planned the next day's activities, but the same feeling of need was like a knife to his throat and a hard fist to his gut.

   They were washing dishes - Hannibal washing and Will drying - when the boy began to seem just a tad more restless. It was a slow build, having no confidence, to obtaining the confidence, to having the courage to use that confidence. Hannibal had no doubts that Will would, in time, voice what was troubling him; he saw no need to ask, and so he did not. It was entirely Will's own agenda.

   The last plate clicked against the other as pleasant conversation died and Hannibal retrieved the last fork for delicate washing. Will swallowed a thick lump of anxiety and uttered the older male's name; it sounded like there was a terrifying serpent right by his feet that he didn't dare pick up by the neck himself. "Yes?" Hannibal hummed. Will was partly envious of the man's ability to stay eerily calm even when he knew something was creating an undeniably obvious tension, and partly hated him for forcing Will to take the issue by the reigns and guide himself to speak freely of the matter. That was simply just how Hannibal was. He had a certain way of handling things and, being under his roof and his care, Will was forced to adopt that way of thinking, too.

   "I was wondering if, well, it would be entirely up to you, but if I could... I never ask for anything."

   Hannibal nodded in agreement. His hands slid from the handle of the silverware to the neck, to the ends that Will's lips had touched throughout the course of a, otherwise, delightful dinner. "I agree, you do not. Your thankful has still been recognized - you needn't worry."

   A beat of silence withdrew them, and then Will shuffled as he accepted the offered fork for drying. "I would like to ask for something if that is alright with you."

   The faucet turned off, a comfortable mix of hot and cold water ceasing its pouring from the tab. Hannibal turned to wipe his hands, which gave Will the unobstructed view of the other's back - something he appreciated, for it was easier than looking at Hannibal's face. "I would give you anything if it is reasonable." Hannibal turned. "Is this a reasonable request?"

   "Maybe... I mean, it is to me. To you, though, that's subjective."

   Hannibal hummed in consideration and then nodded in finality. "Ask, then."

   The last fork was still running through the towel, despite being entirely dry. Hannibal did not ask for it to be put away in its labeled spot, for he assumed it was a comforting factor that aided in the boy's anxiety. Just the redness of his cheeks was a displaying indicator. "I haven't ever wanted anything," Will began, "and I don't - I haven't ever asked for anything that you've given me." He swallowed and placed the fork down on the counter. "I would like to ask to contact someone - a friend."

   Hannibal's shoulders straightened. "May I ask who?"

   "Beverly Katz," Will elaborated.

   "Ah, yes. She was quite a talkative lady if I remember correctly. She told me of your innocence, though I neglected to mention the details of my inquiry."

   Will looked like he wanted to smile, but could not make his lips pull that way. "She was a good friend of mine. Probably the only one I had." The boy's gaze cast down to the floor, but Hannibal's remained. "And I left so abruptly, I thought she might worry of me... And I didn't want her to if she was. Would she?" He shook his head as if to answer his own worries. "I miss her, is all."

   "Are you not content here?"

   Will could not bring his line of sight up. He feared to look at Hannibal, fearing the worst of reactions. A sense of betrayal, perhaps. It was not fear that lined Hannibal's shoulders and straightened his spine. A sense of worry; worry that he was not enough to keep such a restless spirit such as Will content, for he was not the only man and surely not the only one who could keep everything he could want, quenched. It was there, entirely present if Will just chose to look up and meet his eyes. He did not, could not, and refused to. Perhaps he could have read everything then.

   "No! No, I am. I just... Beverly was a great friend of mine. She was the only one. Wouldn't one of your friends worry if you just disappeared?" Will had seen his mistake, for he took a quick step and his fingers played at Hannibal's wrist but did not quite dare to grab like he had at the pool two weeks prior. "I'm not saying I don't like it here. I love it and I love France and I love being-" He wouldn't allow himself to finish. Too much, not enough. "She applied to this college that she was thrilled to have the chance to go to. She was going to receive the letter a few days after I left and I... I want to know if she got it. I just want to know if she's happy, if she made it and if she's alright. Even if it's through a letter. That's all I want."

   In the first instance, Hannibal appeared pained just to have the barest of fingertips dancing on his skin. Then, as if a sudden urge overcame him that was impossible to overturn, he took Will's hand. He had thought this exact moment over a thousand times and concocted a thousand different reasons as to why he should not; why it would be irrational, endangering, plainly stupid to contact somebody from his old life. Hannibal knew what he would say if this moment was to arrive and still, he found himself unprepared. Unwilling to make the boy unhappy, but unwilling to allow any potential harm. It was a matter of deciding which was more harmful: forbidding contact with one of the only friends Will had ever known or letting him write to a harmless girl who was unlikely to impose any danger on Hannibal or anyone on Hannibal's behalf?

   Hannibal's lips pressed the boy's knuckles. If he had any hope of denying him anything, it was to avoid looking into his blue eyes. And, yet, he was swimming in them.

   "You may speak with her," he muttered. "Only her. You must give nothing of our arrangement away. Slip nothing to her. She mustn't know or I will carry the greatest dread and heaviest burden to take such a dear friend away from you, and you from her."

   Will nodded. His curls bobbed with it. "May I tell her of my lessons?" His smile was impossibly joyful and equally as bright and contagious. "As long as I don't mention you? She always wanted to learn French."

   Hannibal's lips pulled up, too. "You may."

   If he had any hope of denying him anything at all, it was to keep away from that smile. How could he, when it radiated far and wide and burrowed deep into his chest?

   "Merci."

* * *

  
   Three days later, Will received what must have been the seventh gift since he arrived in Condécourt, France. It took quite some time to settle in and feel comfortable roaming a new pair of halls, familiarizing himself with the rooms, with the kitchen, with the garden and the pool that were all the better than what they left in Westchase. The orchards were most enjoyable to explore, for not a piece of it was he not allowed to see and touch. There was a distillery nearby which was the main reason for growing a vineyard rather than the perks of its beauty, but Will still plucked a grape when he could. Cautious of what he took and who was seeing, but filling his stomach with the sweet or sour taste, depending on how soft the grape was.  
France was easy to settle into. The air tasted different, his and Hannibal's relationship far less strained and built on troubles and slaps of the past, but looking ahead to making a peaceful future for the two of them until Will was, someday he felt was far off into that same future, allowed to leave. He had no such desire now, but it would, in time, whisper in the back of his mind.

   The gift was a burner phone. It was nothing beautiful nor spectacular, but it had Beverly Katz's number logged into the contacts. Will muttered a thousand thanks and Hannibal gave a thousand smiles. The one and only condition was that he called where someone could listen - not to overthrow his privacy, but to be sure that nothing was muttered in an accidental hint at his location, his company here, or anything that could impose knowledge of Hannibal's business and his name. If he was referred to, it was to be by the label of his tutor. He was free to say he was in France for educational purposes and returning soon, but not with a specific location or date on his false return. If she asked a question that was too specific, Will was to act like someone was calling his name, return to the phone, and change the subject. Beverly was a clever girl, Hannibal knew, so he took each and every step as if it was himself calling.

   Will's greeting to the girl was a shaky hello. He clutched the phone in both hands, had a smile pulling at the very corners of his mouth and no further, and looked to the ground as he spoke. Hannibal was pouring wine, something stronger and more bitter for himself, and something sweet for Will. The idea of allowing the pubescent boy drink was nothing that troubled Hannibal; there was a given rule that he only drank with Hannibal, who could limit the amount and chose what was allowed and what was not. Will still was not sure that he enjoyed the taste of alcohol, but fancied the idea of twirling a glass, like Hannibal. Never sniffing it, but twirling it in his hand like he was some sort of expert on wines.

   "I'm in France," Will replied through the phone. The glass before him went temporarily unnoticed. "I suppose you could call it a boarding school of sorts. My tutor brought me here with him." Will looked at Hannibal who seemed rather content to continue browsing _Games People Play_. "No, no. I'm in the care of my uncle here. I'm fine. I rather enjoy it, actually." The boy drew a knee to his chest, chin resting upon the bone. There was a long pause between his last reply and the next. "You know its a relief. Louis and Bella were going too far with it. I told them I didn't want in anymore, that I never did, and they sent me here to keep me out of the way, I guess. I had no desire to be sent to juvie again."

   Again? Hannibal peered away from his book.

   "I just wanted to check in with you," Will continued, "and see how you're doing. How has school been? Finally catching senioritis?" He laughed. "I knew you'd get in. You're absolutely brilliant."

  It was two chapters later that their called came to an end. Will chose to elaborate on his French lessons, discussed the two years they had Spanish together in their freshman and sophomore year, and her second year in the junior year. Partway through the conversation Will turned away from the phone and tossed a blueberry from his bowl at Hannibal, who subsequently looked up from his book and hummed a sound of acknowledgment. "Do you know Spanish?" The boy had asked. Hannibal replied a simple and brief "no." Following their brief encounter, the very end of the conversation was spoken in Spanish. "Él es una belleza absoluta. Un poco más viejo, pero -" Hannibal had interrupted with a stern glare that implied it end now, and Beverly interrupted with a laugh on the other end of the line, all the way in Virginia. "Dios, Will, ¿estás caliente por él?" She replied. Will's cheeks couldn't have burned any redder. "I have to go," he prompted. "My French lessons are about to begin. He won't be very pleased if I'm late."

   Hannibal was pleased, but not because of lessons and timely attendance.

  
   Hannibal, too, knew a bit of Spanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose these chapters will be more of a drabble than a day-by-day play of Hannibal and Will’s time together. Severe lack of time and an equally severe writer’s block did not help in getting this chapter written and done by the original goal. Still, I hope you accept my apologies and enjoy.  
> Translations:  
> *all are French, unless stated otherwise*  
> *given in order of appearance*  
> Excuses-moi, monsieur - Excuse me, sir.  
> Pardon - Sorry.  
> Ateik čia (Lithuanian) - Come here.  
> Tu es beau - You are beautiful.  
> Je suis Will - I am Will.  
> Reste - Stay.  
> Va te faire foutre - Kiss my ass.  
> Merci - Thank you.  
> Él es una belleza absoluta. Un poco más viejo, pero... (Spanish) - He is an absolute beauty. A little older, but…  
> Dios, Will, ¿estás caliente por é? (Spanish) - God, Will, are you hot for him?  
> As usual, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Feel free to message me on graham.png (instagram) if you have anything you would like to see in the chapters to follow! I plan on keeping up from now on, since things have calmed down and I will have much more time.  
> Much love, Anubis.  
> 


	10. Plucked, Lovingly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal leaves and Matthew visits, which leads to a revelation neither are ready to explain.

  Hannibal, in truth, did not seem bothered by the prospect of Will inhabiting a desire to reach out to those he knew in what they both considered an old, past life. They got along fine thereafter and did not display an awkward tension that said they thought things between them were pulling apart. Hannibal still resided in his usual calm and careless demeanor, and Will in his devil-may-care attitude to the on-goings of Lecter Manor, or Chateau dé Villette as it was formerly known. The happenings were nothing out of the ordinary, for they did nothing but lazily lounge wherever the sun took them, be it the pool or the house.  They were quite perfectly content. Will had a newfound sense of freedom to his allowances, and Hannibal felt proud that there was no irrational escape attempt brewing in the boy's bones. He appeared happy to be in Condécourt, and happy to be far from his parent's grasp. It was, by all means, a milestone and not at all a mistake to loosen the reins.

   That is why it was befuddling when Hannibal unexpectedly disappeared for seven hours on a lonesome Saturday. He had promised an afternoon of touring through the Louvre a sixth time, but when the boy woke just an hour later than usual, he found the older male to be gone during his ponderings through the halls. Will peered into the kitchen, in Hannibal's designated bedroom, and all the extra ones that were scattered throughout the house. He was left alone throughout a quiet breakfast of a French name-brand cereal that truly was not all that appetizing, and long enough to bathe and change into his favorite Versace jacket that he wore on the ride into the country.

   His unexpected guest arrived at ten in the morning with a full escort and a walk that was rather similar to the T-Birds in _Grease_ , a classic film that his mother used to religiously watch due to her infatuation with a young and on-the-rise John Travolta with his hair slicked back and leather-clad social issues; Will watched just for the cars, and maybe Sandy, too. Matthew Brown had a paid a visit, and just because of the one time he watched Hannibal less than kindly usher the man out, he collected Brown's visits were never pleasant and not always without chaos.

   "Daddy isn't here, I assume?" He had asked.

   Will bit the inside of his cheek. With curls still wet and curling at his temples, he shook his head. "No. I haven't any idea where Hannibal went or when he'll be back."

   "Of course. Why would he tell you?" His tone was disregarding, as was his step past. "Hannibal and his mysterious whims." Will waited for an elaboration, then followed Brown out into the gardens as he roamed, which allowed him to stop the other from plucking a flower. "Those just bloomed," Will persisted. "They're Hannibal's second favorite."

   "And what's his first? I have the tingling feeling that I might just be you." The corner's of Matthew's lips turned up devilishly. Will's brow furrowed, just in the slightest, his glare daring and warning that speaking of what was between them was dangerous grounds. _Teasing_ was even more dangerous because it just might be true. "Oh, I'm sure he'd like to pluck you."

   The boy swallowed. Was it obvious what he had done while he bathed? "I'm sure he would like for you to leave. I would, too."

   There was nothing that wouldn't amuse Matthew. Every spoken word from the teenager was like a mildly inappropriate joke he knew he shouldn't laugh at but just couldn't help that small smile of hidden amusement. His visit was brief thereafter, a series of commands given in Lithuanian that Will still did not have the opportunity or means to understand, and then he left with a kiss blown to Will and the question asked that Will would tell Hannibal of his visit, to which the boy was forced to promise. If he kept that promise, it was entirely up to him. He pondered over it throughout the remainder of the morning and the afternoon, drawing conclusions of consequences of telling or not telling when he heard the clicking of shoes against the marble tile entryway two rooms away, an echo that magnified when the house was empty and quiet, as it otherwise had been throughout the day; of course, there was the constant security and brief interruptions when one of Hannibal's men asked if Will needed anything, but if he ignored them all, it was just and solely just Will.

   Hannibal had a piece of fabric running between his hands, wrapping around his thick fingers, collecting any unwanted debris that he just might have collected during the walk from the car to the house. Will was quick to exit his seat and join Hannibal's side as they walked further down the hall, but neither were particularly quick to say a hello. Then, just before Hannibal's bedroom door came into sight, Will nudged Hannibal's side with his elbow and mentioned Matthew Brown's visits. It was a simple "Matthew came to visit," vacant of details or recollections of dialogue, but enough to capture Hannibal's wandering attention.

   "Did he?" Hannibal stopped and turned. "What did he want?"

   "To talk to you, I assume." Will shrugged, then a smile peaked at the corner of his mouth. "I can't be sure. He kept referring to somebody he called my 'Daddy,' so that limits the possibilities."

   Hannibal pursed his lips but neglected to comment on the bit of information. "Would you excuse me for a moment..." Not a question, but not a command. When he took a step, Will grabbed his wrist and twisted his expression into the beginnings of a frown. "Will, I would appreciate showering before I make dinner. I left quite early and was not given the chance." A moment lingered, and then he was released from a weak and feeble hold he could have overcome if he wanted to. "Thank you. Attends-moi dans le parloir, veux-tu?"

   William's chest rose with a sigh that exhaled through his nose. Hannibal seemed to have thought that was an answer, for he left Will and traveled to his bathroom, where the door was closed and therefore closing what little conversation they exchanged. He was not sure if it was the mention of Matthew Brown or if he appeared too eager to have the other home, but Hannibal was in a rush to be away - or so Will believed. There was no truthful telling with Hannibal; he had a separate way of voicing his thoughts, something so rarely done. Wouldn't he be a little more tolerant, after being home for a week and then disappearing, leaving a boy he knew bored so quickly to dwindle in boredom for hours on end, only to come home and leave it to him again? He knew Hannibal showered this morning; Hannibal would never leave without pampering himself first, no matter the rush.

   It was no matter - Will could wait. He did, after crawling onto Hannibal's bed and spreading himself out on it like he owned it. The pillows smelled of lavender and something indecipherable and impossible to pinpoint as just one items perfume, for it was the cologne that Hannibal wore. It was not the same that he had gifted to Will, but of the same brand. Will thought that with some snooping he could, more than likely, find the name and a brief explanation of its exact scent, but, for now, his legs felt boneless and therefore unwilling to travel anywhere but the bed. A small exploration of the bed with his hand led to the realization that Hannibal slept on silk sheets, a fact that seemed only proper. Will couldn't imagine Hannibal sleeping on anything but silk, something so commonly associated with the rich and the sophisticated. He began to wonder what side Hannibal slept on, or if he preferred any. Will sprawled out across his entire bed, though it was inevitable that he curled up to take what little space he could after years of sleeping on the couch or whatever space was available and looked comfortable enough. No matter how many luxuries he was given, he still would carry the habits of his older self. Will pushed that away for now. Thoughts of his parents came so infrequently now that it was a blessing and a curse when they decided to linger in the forefront of his mind, thoughts he would have to swat away before they drove him insane like an ambush of insects crawling into his hair and buzzing near his ear.

   He was so deep in the thought of his parents that he was oblivious to the open and close of the bathroom door and the pause Hannibal took when he saw the boy laying on his bed, and even oblivious to Hannibal's near nakedness when he did come to attention. Staring at the ceiling, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, he asked where Hannibal had gone.

   "There was an issue that needed attending," he simply replied.

   "Did you have to kill someone?"

   The tone in which it was asked like it was a piece of completely casual conversation, disturbed a peace between them. "No." Hannibal turned to the closet. If Will looked, and he did, he would be presented with Hannibal's bare back and bare legs, the most intimately perceived parts of his body covered by a pair of black briefs. "I wish you would stop that."

   "Stop what?"

   "Perceiving what I do as solely the act of murder. There is much more to it that I would explain if I thought it was wise to do so."

   Will's next breath was shallow. "I don't think its just that, even if you did murder my parents." There was a pause that spread between them. Will always hoped that during that silence Hannibal's voice would rise and say that he hadn't murdered them, that they were still alive in Virginia and scrummaging to collect the money to buy their son back. No such interruption came. So, Will finally concluded. "I was just wondering..."

   When the next voice arose, Hannibal was dressed in black chinos and a maroon button-down, and standing at the foot of the bed with hands smoothing out the wrinkles that Will had made which was quite the useless task, for it only wrinkled again when Will sat up to face the other. Hannibal was calm and collected, something expected, as he presented the idea. It was simple, a fact, but entirely unexpected and never foreseen.

   "I would like for you to go to school."

   The boy thought he misheard at first, even if he rarely confused Hannibal's accent anymore. His head cocked to the side, brow confusedly furrowed, tongue resting between his teeth. Any imagined thought of unbuttoning the shirt Hannibal had just put on was swept away and replaced with a singular "what?"

   "I visited a few respectable schools this afternoon after I finished what I set out to do. I must admit it was an on-the-whim decision, but I have given it a great deal of thought and decided it would best to put you in Verneuil-sur-Sein."

   "Did I upset you?"

   Hannibal took his turn to appear confused. "Not at all."

   Will slouched. "Then why are you trying to get rid of me?"

   "That is not at all what is happening, Will." The space beside him was taken, a hand venturing to rest on his bare knee. After a quick swim, the boy had neglected to dress in anything more than boxers and a t-shirt, but there was no fear of appearances here. Hannibal was accustomed to the sight of Will in little to nothing given their frequent trips to the pool and Hannibal's men simply did not care. "After I allowed the call with Miss Katz, I realized I was neglecting you of important aspects of a child's normal life. If you had friends and acquaintances, you wouldn't bore so easily. There is only so much to do in this house. I have no desire to make you feel trapped. Having a social life would benefit you."

   "You are a social life," Will replied. "I talk to you. I talk to Matis, too. Darius if he's yelled at me for something. I talk to enough people."

   "Will-"

   "I talk with your friends when we go out, too."

   Hannibal gripped Will's knee just a fraction tighter. "They are my friends, Will. I want you conversing with people your age, not fifty like myself and my choice of friends or here only for professional protection, such as Matis and Darius. There are thousands of people surrounding us and I have kept you shut up in here for far too long. Schooling at Verneuil-sur-Sein will be a healthy change."

   Will shook his head and even took matters so far as to push the hand from his knee. "They're all French, Hannibal. It's almost the end of the year, anyway, so what's the point in going?"

   "You have done well in your lessons, Will. You needn't fear of being an outcast for that reason. The school leaders already know of your nationality and your native tongue, but its an issue easily accommodated." Hannibal watched as Will stood. "Attending now will allow you to know the people there, and when classes resume in September, starting again will be all the easier."

   "Can't you just homeschool me, or hire a tutor?"

   "I could," Hannibal replied, "and continue to deprive you of what a teenager, nearly an adult, needs."

   "Hell with it. I've gone my whole life with having a single friend and I'm just fine."

   Hannibal stood, then, as Will paced. "Beverly Katz is in America and no more able to speak with you without some form of endangerment. There are precaution we-"

   "I'm talking about you," he interjected. " _You_ are my friend."

   There were few occasions when Hannibal was left without something to say. This was one of those few. The older bit the inside of his cheek and pulled. If he believed the revealing of the idea was to be welcomed, he was wrong. Hannibal had not known what to expect. To be the captor and then labeled as a friend was worrying - should have been a worry, but it only made persistence more difficult. "I won't be enough," Hannibal decided. The look that crossed Will's face drew Hannibal's gaze away. "My absence is to be more frequent from now on. I do not wish to leave you here."

   Will ceased his pacing for a moment. "Is all of this because of Brown?"

   Just the muted look answered the question. "Matthew has... seen it fit to establish his ground in France and leave America to an associate of his. He will be appearing in Condécourt far more often."

   "You don't trust him?"

   "I don't trust him with you," said Hannibal. "I believe it would be safer if you were not in the house during his visits, but that is only another reason why I wish to put you in school."

   "I'm not hurt." Will held out his hands as if to prove it. "He didn't touch me. Even if he did, I could have protected myself."

   "Like how you protected yourself when your parents were murdered and you were taken?"

   He could have been stabbed. He might as well have, as it reopened a scarred wound like it was a knife to air. Will's eyes stung, his teeth biting the inside of lip as he looked Hannibal in the eye with something akin to an unexpected blow of betrayal. "If you don't like Matthew so much, why don't you just shoot him, too?" Hannibal tilted his head - a non-verbal question of elaboration. Will was more than willing to comply. "You wanted me, but you couldn't. You couldn't take me without anybody noticing or anybody caring. So you shot my parents. That makes for an easy take, doesn't it? Even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn't have anything to go back to. Why would I leave, when they're dead and you give me everything? So shoot Matthew, too, because that's your way of taking what you want and getting rid of what's dirt underneath your shoe."

   The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitched. Somehow, without either fully realizing it, Will was closer. Hannibal was unmoving. Even his mouth hardly moved as he spoke, but every word was clear, even in the thick of his accent. "I would never hurt you."

   Will would have laughed. He would have if a thumb hadn't caught the tear that skidded from the swell of his cerulean blue eyes to the red glow of his cheeks. "You hurt me every day, and every day I hate you more for it." And despite hating him for a reason neither would expect but was Hannibal's immediate assumption, Will enveloped himself in the arms of the other. He could hear the thump of Hannibal's heart, his head rising with each intake of breath and falling with it. Hannibal's fingers were in his hair, the other secure on the base of his neck and keeping his head there, although Will had no intention of going anywhere else. "I wish you'd hate me, too."

   "I couldn't hate you. Even if you wanted to take my life, I couldn't. I would give it to you."

   "I wish you'd stop making me pretend."

   Hannibal kissed the top of his head and caught the shiver that ran through the boy's bones. "Hate me, please. Honesty, always."

   "Say you hate me..." Will begged, pulled on the shirt that pressed against his cheek. Hannibal shook his head and Will felt it. He dropped to his knees before the one that held him, lips on Hannibal's thigh as he begged and pleaded for something unspoken. "Say you hate me and show me you do, if you feel nothing else."

   "I can't." Hannibal twirled his fingers in the hair that was so unruly it was infatuating and pulled on the roots enough to bring the face back, chin against his thigh, but the eyes looking up to him. "I can't hate you, Will, and I don't feel any remorse because of it."

   Will's chest shuddered with a shallow breath, but he did not cry. He eyes stung and his head swirled, his mouth dry and breath clogged deep in his lungs - but he thought clearly, without any confusion, without any second thoughts to what slipped from his tongue. He knew how he felt and knew what he wanted, what made his belly hot and uncomfortable with an unexplainable need, what made him touch himself in the garden, what made him touch himself in the bath just that morning, what made him feel the exact opposite of hate whenever he thought of Hannibal. He hated how easily he thought of Hannibal and how easily he forgot about his parents. He hated how wanting Hannibal so terribly wouldn't let him reach that peak of ecstasy and how it always stopped him just before he could grasp the edge and hang there until his arms became too tired and he was forced to let go and fully topple from what held him where he was. There was a line there that turned into a wall and then a militia, but Hannibal plucked through it so easily that Will was jealous. He hated Hannibal because Hannibal saw it all but did nothing but watch. He forced Will to suffer through it and that was an act of hatred itself. Will hated himself because he hated Hannibal for all the wrong reasons.

   "Take me." It was a beg. A plea through layers of mixed emotions suddenly jumbled into what was mistaken as one coherent thought. "Please," he said and repeated until Hannibal finally hushed him with lips on his, a divine savior from that same jumble of emotions, for it cut through all of them and grasped the most simple and most sinful of them all - lust.

   Hannibal had plucked his calla lily and watched it die in his hands.

   

   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Attends-moi dans le parloir, veux-tu?  
> \- Wait for me in the parlor, will you?  
> .  
> Writing fucked up sexual tension is very difficult, hence my hold on actually writing it. It’s difficult to put hatred and love in the same equation and have it still make sense for the readers and between the characters. I don’t want it to make it seem like Will is totally infatuated without any disregard to what happened to him. So, now we have a peak into what we call Stockholm Syndrome.  
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated! Much love, Anubis.


	11. Restricted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harboring inward restrictions, Hannibal and Will begin to discover ways to coexist but still have what they desire. Somewhat.

It was wrong, Will thought, even as he begged for it.

 

Hannibal was touching his throat, fingers ghosting over the vein that thrived with his pulse, thumbs skidding over every inch of possible skin as if assessing where he would like to bite or if it was even appropriate to leave any such mark upon such innocent, golden skin. Will watched his eyes, not his hands or his lips that were wet from a tongue ghosting over them in delicate hunger. Hannibal was memorizing, as Will had so often seen as the man read his abnormal dosage of poetry and literature day to day, but surely not throughout the previous afternoon while he was away and supposedly busy with the requirements of his business. Vague details did not interest Will and so the secrecy of it all did not prick at his mind and did not now; nothing did, but the telltale signs of arousal that he had experienced infrequently prior to his meeting with Hannibal, when all of his attention was devoted to schooling and heists that were bound to fail and put them to ashes, as it fatefully had, but now grew increasingly irritable and more difficult to wash away with a distraction. Hannibal was not offering one but rather giving Will every reason to feel hot and clammy and he was enjoying it - thumbing a bead of sweat away just to lick it from the pad of his thumb, an action so odd but enticing nonetheless that Will was effectively forgetful of how they spiraled into an argument todaybegin with. It was all, quite simply, a memory left to go with the wind wherever it pleased, but far from him. Perhaps that was Hannibal's desire, or perhaps it was not.

 

Neither were quick to act, one timid and one delightfully savoring, but both avoided the sight of the other’s lips. It was as if just a glance would corrupt the self-control they possessed. Did they have any before? Their minds had none. What they owned was fear - fear to touch, to kiss, to hold, to fuck passionately and to fuck ruthlessly. They played a game that was cruel but they had even pieces now, if only they chose to collect another.

 

Will always hated chess.

 

His hands, smaller and thinner than that of the older man, clasped around Hannibal's wrist. It was not an action to convey a message of ceasing or warning or anything of the such at all. Will looked Hannibal in the eye with wet lashes fluttering (such a boyish look, Hannibal thought) as those same charming fingers skidded down his abdomen on a guided adventure. Hannibal's gaze flicked down then, just to see what the boy wanted, where he was being guided, what awaited him for his fingertips to touch and tease. His wrist was abandoned at the waistline of cotton.

 

Hannibal shook his head.

 

"I'm not a child, Hannibal," said Will. "I know what I want. I've known what I wanted for a while. You said you'd give me anything."

 

"Within reason," Hannibal corrected, "I said I would give you whatever you wanted, as long as it was under the requirement of being moral, in this case, and reasonable."

 

"Do you want me?" He asked. It was given in the purest way possible, without any biting of his lips to seem seductive or hooded eyes that radiated an air of mysteriousness. The boy asked plainly, though not concerned, if what he felt was only coursing through him, if Hannibal felt nothing but a vacant desire to care for him in a fatherly fashion, if the times when he thought just maybe, possibly, Hannibal liked him, too, was imagined in his wishful mind.

 

Hannibal touched Will’s cheek, his hand leaving where it had been wishfully guided, to bring the child’s lips to his again. There was no forcefulness in the kiss, as there hadn’t been before. Hannibal did not pull back and nor did Will; both stayed close, a breath away, and fighting to think. Think it through, think about what was right and wrong, for this couldn’t be right. It could feel right, and it did. In it, Hannibal, feeling right there was also the action of sweeping the boy’s innocent away. Was it so important? Was it better to keep himself from what he wanted, or continue to portray an image that he did not feel and was not? “I want you…” Hannibal breathed the admittance, breath tingling against each other’s lips. “You know I do. I’ve been quite plain.”

 

“Then what’s creating an issue?”

 

Hannibal smiled like he wanted to find it humorous, but he couldn’t quite reach that point. “In the years to come, dare I say days, I have no desire to watch you battle guilt for past actions done on the whim of arousal.” He tried to be kind, truly did, and shushed the beginnings of a frown with a hand on the boy’s neck, fingers dancing along his jaw. “You are young; treat yourself as such. You have all the time in the world to decide what you want.”

 

“I’ve used enough time,” he persisted, “deciding what I want. If you make me wait longer I think it’ll become a need.”

 

Hannibal’s hand slid up into the hair he adored with all its unruly curls and untamable tangles that Will ran his hand through too often. “Grow a little and ask me again.” He pulled.

 

“The garden–”

 

“I know what you did,” Hannibal interrupted. “You needn’t admit it.”

 

Will stole a kiss. His hair pulled with it, Hannibal’s hand unprepared to move with him, and sent a shock of delightful pain through his scalp. A second kiss and Hannibal collected himself, using the same hand tangled in chocolate hair to pull the boy’s head back. “You’re the cruelest man alive, Hannibal.” He laughed, lips tickling the base of his throat in retaliation. “I haven’t ever been so deprived.”

 

The flat of his tongue dragged up an inch of skin. Will wanted to squirm, but given his position, it wouldn’t help him any. It was abnormal how quickly they could move past something, turn to a better chapter, forgive and forget.

 

“Do you think you are the first to tell me such?” Hannibal breathed hotly against his throat. “I am cruel. Delightfully.”

 

“Don’t torture me this time.” Will would have made it a plea if he thought Hannibal would fall for such a lack of confidence. “I haven’t done anything to deserve it. I always do-”

 

Hannibal grasped the boy’s chin. Muscles flexed with a swallow beneath his palm. “You always do your best. You never upset me if you mustn’t and you never ask for what I would not approve. You deserve kind respect and I would give it and all, darling, to you.”

 

Will breathed through his nose. He swiped away the hand that gripped his chin. “Don’t do that to me,” he said. “Do anything else but that.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Speak to me like I’m one of your friends at the damn opera. Like… like you keep me around as a nice trophy to keep you at the top of the social latter… like an acquaintance. As if you didn’t just kiss me and I didn’t just beg you to fucking fuck me. Like you don’t have any sort of attraction towards me at all.”

 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth upturned into the beginnings of a smile, deviously humored and so cruel that Will pushed at the man’s chest, effectively creating a foot of space between them. “Is that truly how you believe I act in the eye of the public?” He asked - asked the wrong question, avoided what desperately needed to be discussed just to have his fun poking at the boy. “I kissed you, didn’t I? Is that not an indicator that I have even the faintest liking of you?”

 

Will whirled on his heel. He couldn’t bear to look at Hannibal now, as he insulted Will in the most unkind way he knew how. The lump in his throat disappeared with a swallow, but acid seemed to be flowing through him in angry spurts. “No. I think it’s an indication that you enjoy toying with me. I think now, too…” Will drew his arm back with a repulsed tug, Hannibal’s hand coming up bare. “That I’m stupid for ever coming to terms that I liked you. I wish I still hated you as much as the day you stole me.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Will wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth. “Of course you don’t.”

 

“William,” Hannibal pursued. “What you do not understand is the obstacle that would always hinder what you desire. A pleasurable moment would seem harmless to you – it might have to me when I was still as fruitfully lustful as you. Have you thought of what would happen in the months to come? Would you be prepared to endure the tension and stress of it? You see what you want but not beyond and that is where I am looking. I need you to look with me.”

 

The boy’s arms wrapped tighter around himself, fingertips digging between his ribs to leave blossoming bruises in the days to come. If he desired for them to be a reminder of what he couldn’t have, shouldn’t have, he wouldn’t have spoken the admittance aloud.

 

“I am looking. I have been. It hasn’t stopped me from wanting you.”

 

“Do you want me,” Hannibal asked, “or do you love me?”

 

There was a fine line that separated the box that contained Hannibal in Will’s mind. He rather often pawed over what he knew, guessed at what he didn’t, and formulated some sort of story between them. It was a boy’s imagination, albeit over-developed, but far-fetched and easily caught in a meager breeze of the wind. For weeks he thought of Hannibal buried inside him with the same sort of hunger that bubbled within him at that moment in the garden. It transitioned to the thought of simple touching - Hannibal touching his hand as they passed, smiling while he cooked, thoroughly excited when Will completed a whole sentence in French, offering the most complicated of compliments that could have been simplified into just four or five words. Then he realized that was Hannibal. Then and now. Comfortable in his secrets, but not so mysterious that Will could not see through the thick cloud of secrecy. Hannibal was careful and always would be. Careful of his endeavors, of what he said of his activities during the trips away, or what he let slip and fondle in Will’s imagination until he placed it in the box that was labeled with Hannibal’s name. Everything that he wished Hannibal to be, Hannibal was now.

 

“I’m…” he breathed through a throat that felt dry and pierced with a dozen thorns, but could not say the words that threatened to spill so often before. “I’m going to lay down for a while.”

 

Hannibal did not hesitate to unfurl Will and pull him flushed against himself, hands tangled in the hair that smelled of lavender and felt like wisps of cotton. “You draw to conclusions so quickly, my darling.” Hannibal was vacant of the amusement that always seemed to paw at his tongue. “Lay down with me and listen to a composition or two. We can open discussion again when the both of us are up to it.”

 

Will almost went with it - Hannibal’s persuasion, the offer to lay on his silk sheets and touch shoulders and hands while a composition spun on vinyl. His pale fingers even tightened around the maroon fabric drawn tight around Hannibal’s sides and balled in his fists, as if to say he agreed. “No,” he contradicted. Hannibal’s chin lifted into the air an inch, perhaps, and his gaze narrowed at the door. “No, I won’t fall for that. You won’t distract me.”

 

“Will-”

 

Hannibal seemed, this once, agitated with the persistent interruption. The boy pushed back, hands firm upon Hannibal’s middle in his easy escape. “If you won’t go at this head-on and decide what you’re going to do, I don’t want to be involved with you.” An unfair argument, albeit quite impossible. “You can keep ignoring it or just grow a pair. Until then, I haven’t the tolerance to keep pretending.”

 

“Time apart would do you and me well.”

 

William’s mouth tasted bitter as his teeth sank through the fragile skin lining the inside of his cheek. The tip of his tongue collected a metallic taste and he swallowed despite the unpleasurable tang and swallowed again to relieve himself of the annoyance that pricked equally at them both.

 

He did not say anything more. Turning on his heel, failing to find pockets to bury his hands into, Will exited through the bedroom door and begrudgingly walked down the halls with his chin low and a certain irritation burdening any restfulness he might have acquired during the time away from Hannibal. Just the next morning, while they sat together and ate a quiet breakfast (Hannibal still attempting to make usual conversation), Will accepted the offer that was put forth the previous night. Hannibal seemed delighted. The same afternoon a uniform appeared on the foot of his bed, pressed and ironed, and Hannibal sat and waited in the corner of the room with his legs crossed and a book resting comfortably on a knee and his back fitted against the curve of the chair, an expectancy shifting through his gaze as it picked up from whatever it was to Will, a simple nod of the chin indicating the uniform folded neatly and nothing unlike what Hannibal would do.

 

“Uniform requirement?”

 

Hannibal did not allow his attention to withdraw from the page turning between his index and thumb.

 

Will sighed, collected the uniform, and changed into it within the privacy of the joint bathroom. The tub was still draining from a mid-afternoon bath after a long swim, and still emitted the faint smell of shampoo. If he and Will were on better terms, Hannibal would have taken the opportunity to lather Will’s curls and scalp in shampoo as he so often did, but it was radio silence since breakfast. The older man nodded in satisfaction of the fit when Will stepped outside the bathroom’s confines, clad in khaki slacks that fit like his familiar slim jeans, a white dress shirt, maroon tie, and deep navy blazer embroidered with the school’s - Notre-Dame International High School - logo.

 

Hannibal disappeared to his office thereafter, and Will sulked for the remainder of the day.

 

It was only until it was well past midnight while Will became bored with the television program chosen on the flip of a coin that he escaped the bedroom and hunted for Hannibal. Stubbornness was a quality both men knew fondly and neither knew how to give up, but it slowly slipped through the boy’s grasp as he thought of the events to unfold within three days time. He knew nothing of the school, of the curriculum, of the pretenses with which he was to attend, of his peers or overseers. It was only natural for him to assume there was to be some sort of protection following him around throughout the day, but he knew not who he was to ignore. As dreary as it seemed to be the first to leap across the murky puddle between them, Will had the intention of going against his word.

 

Matis warned him at first. The hall leading to Hannibal’s office was strictly off-limits and always had been, whether in Westchase or Condécourt. Will pursued regardless and though Matis followed at a slow pace behind, he did not forcibly stop the child from entering the forbidden office.

 

Hannibal was there, as expected, with a single desk light illuminating the chart beneath his hands. There was no hello, or why are you not in bed, but a breath puffed between parted lips and “did Matis relieve himself, or should I consider sending a formal letter of required departure?”

 

The lights switched on with a flick. Will, with his bowl of blueberries carried from the bedroom to the office, did not feel a tinge of guilt. Hannibal valued Matis above all others and would not consider firing his best employee if he mustn’t, and he would not for the simple matter of allowing a pesky teenage boy to wander forth.

 

“He warned me not to,” Will replied, “but I wanted to see you.”

 

“Something troubling you?” Hannibal asked. His pencil returned to paper and the sound of scratching resumed.

 

Will shook his head, but then seemed to notice where Hannibal’s gaze lingered. “No. I just wanted to talk.”

 

There was a pause and a moment of silence, but it was nothing more than a second and the task resumed. “What about?” Hannibal was kind enough to not mention the boy’s persistence the night before, or resistance of what Will deemed persuasion.

 

Will shrugged. “I don’t know.”

 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched. Will hoped it was a fought smile. The was no second seat in the office, though it may be relatively large. His formal office was in the process of small renovations, which led him to be forcibly cast out to a spare room temporarily converted to its purpose. Bookcases, or a personal library, was being installed. Now, with nowhere to rest but the wooden floor, Will took the chance of clearing a small fraction of the desk to sit upon.

 

“What are you working on?”

 

“Bills, if you must know.”

 

The boy nodded. “Do you want a blueberry?” He asked.

 

Hannibal did smile, then. “I’m quite alright, thank you.”

 

“What kind of bills?” He continued. “Light bills? Heating bills? Car bills? Insurance bills?”

 

“Education bills,” Hannibal replied, “so you may attend.”

 

He might have asked how much this new education was to cost if he truly wanted to know, but feared to hear a number. Hannibal would accept nothing but the best, and the best was often costly.

 

Will nodded, plucked a blueberry from the bowl, and glared at it as if it had done him wrong.

 

“Is there anything else you would like to know?” Hannibal inquired. His hand reached across the expanse of the desk in search of the pile of cold and fresh fruit.

 

“May I have a dog?”

 

The blueberry did not quite reach his mouth. Hannibal’s wandering gaze effectively locked on the boy rudely (he realized) sitting on his desk, shifting his papers to be there, overall invading what privacy the hidden office was to allow. Now, with blue tainted fingers and no doubt a blue and uncontrolled tongue, the same child was asking for an animal - not just any animal, but a dog. Energetic, loud, difficult to train, loud, unorganized, and terribly troublesome. His immediate internal response was a flat ‘absolutely not’ that did not hold a possibility for second-questioning. A fish was reasonable to ask for, plausibly easy to care for with no mess or hassle required. Certain breeds of reptiles would have been a better choice. There was no fur to spread and no persistent odor that would linger on the couches and himself. He could hardly imagine having to take a lint roller to his suit every morning and every evening. He could hardly allow a pesky dog to overtake his home.

 

There wasn’t a feasible chance.

 

Yet, his immediate verbal response was never given and therefore the subject was never finalized. It changed as if he hadn’t heard the proposition at all, which left room for hope. “I require your signature on this form.” Will did not appear crestfallen, but neither exuberated. “The school will recognize you by the alias of Raoul Angelov. We will review the entire history later on, but a signature does not require any false pretenses to review.”

 

Will slid off the desk. “Sure.” He crossed with quiet steps, bare feet inaudibly padding against the hardwood floors, and took up the offered pen in his right hand. “Just the one page?”

 

“Only the one page,” Hannibal confirmed, “and then you should stalk off to bed. I made eclairs earlier this afternoon if you would like to stop in the kitchen for a snack.”

 

“Will you be stopping in the kitchen?”

 

“My business does not rest. Now that your formal application is completed, I have more to complete before I gain that luxury.”

 

“Your ‘business’ rests when you rest.”

 

Hannibal smiled. It was ginger and kind and earned a grin in return. “If only,” he replied. “Hurry off now. You are cranky enough in the morning as it is.”

 

The boy offered the pen between forefinger and thumb, relieved of it within the next moment. “Go to bed, Hannibal,” Will insisted. “Whatever it is can wait. It can’t be healthy to stay up so late every night. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a nocturnal peacock.”

 

“Peacock?” Hannibal repeated. “So I’m a peacock now?”

 

“Yes. You’re showy and loud and desire as much attention as possible.”

 

Hannibal did not laugh but displayed the smile that was similar to it. Instead, he returned to his work and replaced the application form with a new paper, the contents of which were unknown to Will.

 

“Do inform me if the eclairs are to your standards. Some are quite particular with the filling.”

 

“How about you find out with me?” Hannibal’s brow raised, but he did not rise from the seat he stubbornly occupied. Will needn’t siGh exasperatedly, for his irritation was clear in swift motion during which he softly kicked at Hannibal’s leg as if to say ‘come on.’ No movement occurred, and Will rolled his eyes. “I would like it if you separated yourself from your work to enjoy ten minutes, at the most, with me and the eclairs you made. Then you can lie to me and say you went back to bed after I persistently told you to even though you did not.”

 

Hannibal turned, chair turning with him, and set the pen down. A dot of black ink stained the paper beneath it. “I appreciate the effort to include me, Will, but I really must work.”

 

A beat of agitated silence lingered, and then the boy nodded in reluctant understanding. He felt rather terrible for having been an annoyance to no avail, but Hannibal was no less kind as he offered a thoughtful goodnight. Will turned and took a step around the desk, but within a moments instance he thought against an abrupt departure and thought of why he was thinking of the debris of awkwardness that still lingered there, or worrying if he had offended when it truly was quite difficult to offend a man of Hannibal’s nature. No matter what he could do or say, Hannibal was bound to revert and so was he. Will carried a confidence that he had repaired what he himself broke, a confidence that it would not always be a dull parental understanding that did not fit their dynamic and was never the correct dynamic for them.

 

Will grabbed Hannibal’s chin, leaned down so quickly that it startled them both, and gave Hannibal’s lips the taste of blueberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorr it took so long and is so poor and rushed! The next couple of chapters won't take so long. I will get back on top of this!


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